Mistress of Discord
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: Two years after their misadventures in San Juan, William and Julia are called to the New World to clear the name of a good friend. Meanwhile, the crews of the Arcadia and the Temperance clash with an unpredictable adversary. [Sequel to Master of Tides. 17th century privateering AU set in the Caribbean. Rated T for violence and action. Jilliam, Gemily, MTB. Complete]
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello everyone! Here we have the first chapter of the long-awaited sequel to _Master of Tides_. (If you haven't yet read it, I recommend that you do, for little will make sense here if you don't.) When we last left our heroes, William and Julia remained on Barbados as the _Temperance_ and the _Arcadia_ sailed on in search of adventure, while Henry returned to England on a mission. About two years have passed since their last encounter, making it the summer of 1672.

Charleston, South Carolina was originally founded as Charles Town in 1670 on the Ashley River before being relocated ten years later. It wasn't formally incorporated until the American Revolution, instead being ruled by state officials and lords who had fallen into the good graces of the King. The settlers from Barbados encountered flooding, disease, conflict with Native American tribes, along with a slew of corruption and crime. It is here where the main storyline is set.

I apologize for the delay in this story! I'm still in college; research and coursework left me with little free time this semester. I hope everyone who read my stories previously joins me along for the ride. I've got a few oneshots waiting in the wings, including an addition to the Common Life AU series. Anyhow, this story contains the trinity: Jilliam, Gemily, MTB. Rated T for violence and action. This is an AU, and some characters will be a little OOC. There will be ten chapters, and fear not, for there will be a seafaring battle or two!

Next time: A plot recap of MOT, and the new Captain has a chance to explain herself.

 **Mistress of Discord**

 **Chapter One**

In the wee hours of the morning in the island community of Bridgetown, a foul plot was afoot. William suspected he was subconsciously aware of it in his slumber, as a roaring fire was prepared downstairs and a pot of water set to boil, raising the temperature in the sleeping loft a good ten degrees. Nevermind the fact that it was the middle of summer and he was perspiring already as he lay in his cot, shirt halfway unbuttoned and blanket kicked to one side; the sound of his housemate struggling to pull the heavy tub across the rough floorboards was enough to rouse him.

Opening one eye a fraction of an inch, he was treated to the sight of the doctor stooped over, tugging on the handles of the tub with all of her might. It never failed to surprise him just how physically strong Julia was-certainly she had plenty of time to develop her strength in her trade, touting corpses onto her morgue slab and lifting drunkards twice her weight-but it was the little girlish things she did when she thought no one was looking that particularly endeared her to him.

Presently, it was the way she hummed in satisfaction as she finally succeeded in pushing the tub over into her corner, pausing to tie a cascade of blonde curls at the nape of her neck with a bit of twine. Hiking her nightgown up to mid-thigh, she gingerly made her way down the steps, once again conscious of the fact that she lived with someone else. As William observed through slitted eyes, Julia touted pot after pot of scalding water up to the second level and added it to her bath. Once she was satisfied with the level to which the tub was filled, she stepped back and admired her handiwork, hands perched on her hips.

Without even turning around, she suddenly declared, "William Murdoch, I know you are awake."

 _He had been caught!_ Somewhat bashfully, he rolled over to avert his eyes. Surely she knew that his intentions hadn't been voyeuristic in nature, but _all the same-_

"Do try not to use all of the hot water this time," he answered, somewhat pleased to hear her chuckle in response. Over his shoulder, he heard one set of curtains that separated their sleeping quarters be drawn, followed by the shuffle of Julia shedding her gown and stepping into the water.

Over the course of the time they'd lived together, William and Julia had grown accustomed to each other's routines. Neither were particularly fond of sleep, for their work often kept them up late into the night and shook them from their beds early in the morning. As sure as the good people of Barbados insisted on committing sundry breaches of judgment, they had to be ready to spring to action at a moment's notice.

Their building sat at the crest of a gentle swell in the land some five minutes' walk from the docks, blending in with the other establishments with its clapboard roof and walls painted in the softest of canary yellows. That had been Julia's idea, along with the two signs mounted above the door by a neighborhood handyman: _Bridgetown Constabulary, Sir William Murdoch presiding_ , and below, _Ogden's General Surgery and Apothecary_. A bell resting against the inside of the door would alert them to someone's presence; upon entering, their guests would be standing between two oaken desks that had been imported from England at considerable expense to the pair. A good deal of wall space was occupied with bookshelves and cabinets. On one side lay the city's public records and William's literature on criminal behavior, while every available space on the opposite end of the room was littered with Julia's medical texts, her tinctures and tools.

Further into the building sat the makeshift examination table and a growing collection of jars containing every part of the human body, cleaned and stored in brine. This was set apart from the fire pit and sitting area with a heavy curtain; on the occasion that she operated on a patient, William often found that he had to leave the building so as not to be overtaken by the noxious odors and terrible sounds coming from behind it.

Several times he was even conscripted to act as a surgical aide. Julia certainly wasn't the only doctor on the island, nor the most educated, but her prices were fair and the indentured servant population had taken a shining to her, particularly the women. William had personally assisted with over twenty births, each time growing less horrified and more awestruck by the beginning of life.

(That was another matter-the English servants on the sugarcane plantations didn't make a reliable salary, so they were often paid in odds and ends, pots of stew or stiff workman's breeches. He didn't bat an eye when once Julia returned from a housecall tugging a sow on a leash. Neither could bare to slaughter the creature, so she became more of a pet, receiving a name, Betty, and her own living quarters around the rear of the building. The pen was immediately adjacent to the shed that also functioned as a cell, and it was remarked by more than one recently sobered drunkard that the _smell_ was almost punishment enough.)

He digressed. William felt fulfilled in his work. The islanders were a curious mixture of high society, their slaves and servants, passing sailors, ne'er-do-wells, and middle class merchants. He worked intimately with each group to better their community, and had gained quite the positive reputation for himself. Barbados became his own slice of paradise in the raucous developing sphere of the Caribbean, and though he'd initially been reluctant to go, he wouldn't have traded all the accolades in Yarmouth for his current role.

And yet it did not escape him that his world was small, increasingly consumed by the presence of the beguiling woman that shared his home. It was scandalous enough that an unmarried pair be living together, let alone that they were seen almost exclusively in each other's company when they ventured out in public. There was talk among the town folk as to the nature of their relationship, but they didn't ask and he didn't supply them with information. It had been almost two years since their ordeal in San Juan, and almost that long since either of them had heard from the crews of the _Temperance_ and the _Arcadia_. But their interest in each other had yet to wane, and William had to acquiesce that the time was coming that decisions would have to be made as to how their unspoken courtship was going to proceed.

Finally when Julia exited the bath and went downstairs to prepare the morning meal, William performed his morning ablutions. The longer he lived this casual lifestyle, the looser his sense of sartorial decorum became. He no longer wore a tie or cravat, but left his shirt partially unbuttoned over a vest. His leather brogues were long since replaced by cloth loafers. But he took pride on remaining immaculately groomed, and suspected his housemate appreciated that.

Julia didn't attempt to be any more ambitious than sliced fruit and crackers for breakfast; indeed, somehow in the course of her unconventional childhood, the culinary arts had evaded her. The detective didn't mind, taking the opportunity to catch up on his reading as they ate. Twice a year a book merchant from London moored up the coast, and he already knew the both of them by name for their discerning tastes.

Several hours passed in which the two were engrossed in their work. On slow days such as this one, the morning and afternoon often passed in silent contemplation and study. At last there was a rather polite knock at the door. Julia answered it, greeting the young man on the threshold with a warm smile. The island lacked a formal postman as deliveries were few and far between, but there were always a few messengers loitering about the docks looking for a job and pocket change. She chatted with the boy a few moments, perhaps arranging an appointment for one of his family members, before shutting the door and returning to her desk.

"It's addressed from the law offices of James, James, Jarvis and James, Charles Town, Province of Carolina," she said, tracing her finger over the letterhead and seal.

Murdoch raised his eyebrows. The town in question had been founded by settlers from Barbados some months prior, before being joined by a coterie of eccentric lords granted land at behest of King Charles. He'd received a few inquiries about city records from colonists who knew him from previous interactions, and even briefly wondered if he'd be reassigned up north. But that had been all, and neither had strong ties up there. "To you or I?"

She made a contemplative sound in the back of her throat. "Doesn't say." Julia's eyes strayed to the window, the lazy sunshine of the late afternoon casting shadows over her face. She reached for the letter opener, only to sit back and tuck the letter into the breast pocket of her shirt. "What say you to performing our constitutional?"

William and Julia made a point to trace the perimeter of the city at least once per day, ever vigilant for the slightest sound of trouble and to keep their relationship with the public strong. There were more than fifty businesses and countless residences in walkable distance of the constabulary; each of them knew of their local constable and were often keen to stray from his bad side. When they turned onto a less populated street, she would often tuck her hand into the crook of his elbow and they would proceed thusly, enjoying the fine weather and each other's company. And so it had been, every day for almost two years.

Neither mentioned the letter as they strolled along the main thoroughfare adjacent to the docks. Town was situated on the southwest quadrant of the island, prime location for the leeward ocean breezes to keep the air cool. Farther east and north lay the great expanses of sugarcane fields, where William hesitated to venture for recollection of previous experiences.

 _A shattered wine glass. The broken body of a child. A warm gun and a folded map…_

"Do you ever think about moving back to England, William?" His companion shook him out of his reverie, nodding and waving at every acquaintance they passed.

He considered this, then he became cognizant of the sand cutting into his shoes and palms waving overhead, the warm sun and the familiar sensation of a lovely woman by his side. "Of course not," he replied, and meant it.

All of a sudden the celebration that had been taking place within a nearby tavern burst onto the street, as the body of a man was expelled out of the shuttered windows and onto the ground. As they watched, he drunkenly stumbled to his feet, only to be knocked backward by a heavy goblet hitting him square in the chest. The door slammed open and two people staggered out, a man and woman engaged in fisticuffs. The profile of the woman looked strangely familiar.

As this particular establishment was known for hosting the most notorious of seafaring criminals, William and Julia high tailed it up the dune in the direction of the brawl. Before they could reach her, the woman disappeared back into the building, calling for unseen companions to join her.

William reached for his weapon, a pistol that he kept tucked into the band of his trousers. At first he'd been reluctant to carry it, but Julia had insisted on purchasing a matching pair, as a minority of the population insisted on behaving as if Barbados were the same lawless homestead that had been settled some forty years prior.

"Bridgetown Constabulary! Hands in the air!" William cried, bursting through the door shortly followed by Julia. Several revelers took notice of their weapons and immediately set aside whatever implements they'd been using to spar, utensils, walking canes, and cups falling from their hands. Seeing as more than one of them were probably wanted on other islands for various infractions, they found it wise to avoid coming into the crosshairs of the law. Farther into the room, a dark haired woman kicked her opponent squarely in the gut, before pushing him up against the bar and delivering several more punishing blows.

A rough-looking sailor near the wall hoisted one of the heavy copper plates and was about to bring it over the head of a less suspecting target, when a dagger flew out of an unseen hand and pinned his shirt sleeve to the wall.

The helpless barkeep gestured wildly towards William, then to the dozen or so that continued to fight regardless of his verbal warning. Without giving it a second thought, Julia wrapped her fingers underneath the edge of a nearby table and flipped it, the sound deafening as it echoed against the walls. The table narrowly missed crushing one of the women, who reached for her weapon and drew herself up to full height just as the doctor reached for her own.

That was how Julia found herself holding her former cabin girl, Annie Cranston, at wide-eyed gunpoint.

It was as if whatever spell had come over the revelers shattered in that instant. The woman who had been holding her opponent against the bar stepped back, revealing none other than Nina Bloom, one of her old navigators. One by one, the remainder of the fighters raised their hands in surrender.

William began to walk among their ranks, checking to make sure that there were no violent suspects still hidden in the shadows. Julia reached out and forced the shocked girl to lower her gun. Catching a glimpse of the figure who had thrown the knife, she declared, "Why, Emily, it appears as if you have gotten yourself into a bit of trouble."

Emily Grace, the current captain of the good ship _Temperance_ , nonchalantly lifted herself from the bar stool and strolled over to the wall, removing her dagger with one solid yank. The drifter fell to his knees, cowering before the woman who could just have easily taken his life.

Looking around, Julia could make out the faces of no less than ten of her former crew members, looking somewhat bashful to have been reunited in such a way. Finally Emily responded, tucking the knife into the holster around her waist.

"Far be it for me to refuse the crew a bit of fun."

She was unshakably confident as always. In spite of the situation, Julia smiled before trying to hide it by coughing into her sleeve. "Go on. Speak up. Someone explain what is going on here."

"I believe this man can tell you," Captain Grace seized a handful of the hair of the man who kneeled before her, lifting him up from the floor. "He attempted to touch one of our girls indecently."

William looked down at the man, who appeared to be intoxicated beyond his own comprehension. But if this accusation were true, he couldn't find a spot of pity for him. "Which one of you received his advances?"

Annie spoke up, a little too quickly. "It was I."

"Very well. Who witnessed this?"

All of the women and a handful of the men muttered their assent. The lawman moved towards the culprit, asking, "Have you insulted this woman's honor?"

He made a few noncommittal noises, only to have Emily drop him to the ground and pin him up once again, this time by a knee pressed dangerously close to his groin.

"I believe you heard the question, sir," she ground out, bearing down with more pressure until the drunkard finally admitted his guilt.

While William did admire the young woman's tenacity, he still knew that due process of the law was necessary. He began to move among the people congregated in the tavern, taking their statements in an effort to piece together what had happened in the scant few moments before their arrival.

"I suppose it is without merit to ask you how this transpired," Julia said to her protegee, who had managed to sit back down at the bar with some difficulty. Emily had always been sharp-tongued, even impulsive; however, this behavior was a tad concerning. Clearly more than a few things had changed since their last encounter.

She treated her to a wry smile. "You know as well as I: the same thing that happened on every shore leave we took together as shipmates. These scum of the earth simply cannot control themselves." Making eye contact with one of the men across the room who was watching them, she halfway reached for her holster and delighted to see him avert his eyes instantly.

"Say, where is George?" The last time she had laid eyes on the young man, he had been bidding them _adieu_ from the prow of the _Temperance_ as they sailed out of port. Since then, their correspondence had been woefully thin. She hoped that some tragedy had not befallen him.

Emily sighed with tremendous weariness and leaned back, absentmindedly running her palms over her stomach. "Back on the ship. I promised him we would not run afoul of any more of our enemies. Alas…"

Listening to her friend trail off, Julia could no longer ignore her primary concern for her crew's sudden appearance. "Emily, whyever did you not let me know you were in town?"

The captain appeared confused. "I sent that letter ahead. Did you not receive it?"

At once she remembered the envelope tucked into her shirt pocket. Julia withdrew it just in time for her companion to return to the bar, looking over her shoulder, eyes wide with concern. Unfolding the parchment, her eyes raced over the sentences carefully formed with a quill:

 _TO SIR WILLIAM MURDOCH, COMMANDANT OF THE BRIDGETOWN CONSTABULARY, BARBADOS._

 _FOND GREETINGS FROM CHARLES TOWN, MY LAW FIRM AND ALL THE SOULS THAT RESIDE HERE. YOUR REPUTATION PRECEDES YOU SIR. I AM WRITING TO REQUISITION THE RECORDS OF ONE TERRENCE MEYERS, RECENTLY BROUGHT TO HIS MAKER THROUGH A MOST GRUESOME MISADVENTURE. CULPRIT BEHIND BARS, NO NEED FOR CONCERN. HAVE TAKEN RESPONSIBILITY FOR CASE. PLEASE SEND DOCUMENTS ALONG PRESENTLY._

 _SIGNED SIR SAMUEL JARVIS, ESQUIRE._

"It is critical that you come back with us at once, as there is no time to spare. Our friend Henry Higgins stands to be executed for the murder."

 _(to be continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you all for your initial feedback! Your kind words encourage me to keep going. I'm pleased where this is heading so far.

Next time: A meeting of old friends, and a revival of the classic chase scene trope.

 **Mistress of Discord**

 **Chapter Two**

Once the initial shock at the news had settled, William took leave of the deleterious youth, hauling the drunken sailor off for a night in the cells. There was only one key to the shed, and it was threaded through a bit of twine and worn like a necklace by Julia, who would sooner incapacitate someone rather than let them make off with it. He averted his eyes as she slipped it out from its hiding place, bending down to finagle with the lock. All the while Emily made casual conversation, having followed her former mentor at the heels all the way across town. A few cracks were beginning to show through her self-assured facade, as she was quite out of breath by the time they sat down in the makeshift office.

"The local government was kind to you, Sir Murdoch. This is a beautiful building," she observed, accepting the proffered cup of tea.

"So it is," Julia agreed, and came to sit in the chair opposite her.

Although they were presently muddling through the dredges of late summer, the night was unseasonably chilly. William soon resolved to starting a fire, only to feel a plaintive tap on his elbow just as he reached for the poker. "I hate to discourage your hospitality, but time is most certainly of the essence."

Julia's lips formed a thin line of exasperation. "Is that why you stopped at the tavern _first_?"

If she was taken aback by this rhetorical question, Emily didn't show it. "I suppose you are wondering how we came to have this information."

"That would be a good start," William said, his voice slightly muffled as he turned his back to them, rustling through the cabinet of files. As the local law firm was housed in a woefully cramped storefront next to the water, a great deal of business contracts, as well as criminal records and personal paperwork found its way to the constabulary. He started at the front and worked his way backwards, searching for the pertinent name.

"We wintered in the Bahamas this year, just as we always have," Emily began, thinking it was some sort of consolation to remind Julia that not everything had changed since she had taken command. "It was there Rebecca received a letter from Henry Higgins, explaining that he had left England and been instated as a clerk to a lawman in Charles Town. The _Arcadia_ ran the gauntlet up the American coast for the past two seasons and happened to be moored nearby for the winter. He privately confessed the great extent of their profits, and we found occasion to visit once the weather permitted."

This did not come as a surprise. The legislation recently imposed on them by the crown put an end to their former career as privateers, stipulating that any English vessel caught in Spanish waters could be captured and its crew executed for piracy. Now that their movements would be monitored, the _Temperance_ found it necessary to trade exclusively among crown territories, most likely with a few illicit deals with Spanish colonists struck up on the side. "Charles Town is the next London, mark my words. Only two years on this earth and already permanent buildings line the streets. The merchant community is strong and profitable, and the _people_! We remained there for some time, engaging in joint ventures with Brax and his lot."

Julia frowned as her housemate approached with a stack of parchment in hand. "Why did you not leave in the spring?" This struck her as atypical, for when she had been at the helm, the _Temperance_ sailed here there and everywhere, always one step ahead of the law and sure not to remain in one place for too long. And as for their continued business with Captain Brackenreid...their two complements had always been allies, but never _partners_ , careful not to step within each other's sphere of influence.

The young woman stiffened, but ignored the question. "Three weeks ago, a businessman was found murdered in his home. Your records will confirm that he came over from Barbados with the first round of colonists. His wife is a pretty young thing, recently imported from the motherland. I remember her maiden name from the bulletins posted about town: _Rosevear_. Ruby Rosevear, if I'm not mistaken. Anyhow, she seemed quite taken with Henry, and the presumption is that Mr. Meyers was murdered over her affections."

The name of the deceased stirred something deep within Murdoch's memory. Folding his legs into a figure four, he propped the paperwork up on his knees and began to flip through it. Terrence Meyers hadn't made his fortune in sugarcane, but shipping and trading. There were the barest of records concerning the affairs of his business, including contracts between himself and offshore partners. He scanned them, then handed them off to Julia, who stopped her reach halfway towards passing them to Emily. It was times like these she often forgot that a good deal of their acquaintances couldn't read much more than the average _WANTED_ sign.

"Can anyone account for his whereabouts during the night in question?" William asked.

With tremendous weariness, Emily admitted her misgivings. "He was with some boys from the _Arcadia_ during the evening, but disappeared around midnight about an hour before the body was found."

"How do you know this?"

"The screaming, sir. We were a quarter mile from their home, yet I've never _heard_ such a sound."

He raised his eyebrows. Upon finding her husband's dead body, Mrs. Meyers would be understandably devastated. "Did Mr. Higgins offer an explanation for his lack of presence?"

Emily shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It was beginning to feel as if she was being interrogated. "He would not tell me. That's just the thing. He could at least clear any doubt among his men by confessing to his whereabouts, but he positively will not."

"And do you believe he committed the crime?"

"I _know_ he did not kill the man." Emily asserted, crossing her arms over her chest. "I beg of you not to inquire how. It's intuition, pure and simple. Much of the crew are with me on this matter."

The lawman finally found the document he was searching for, the fragment of memory that had been clawing its way to the surface. "See here, Terrence Meyers was once arrested in Bridgetown for coercion and impudent business practices. It must have been in the months before we arrived. I assure you his reputation and conscience were not without partial ruin." He paused, poring over the report prepared by the local esquire for additional information, but found little. "Captain Grace, is there any other matter you can remember about that night? Any bit of information, however trivial, could help us tremendously."

She began to shake her head, then stopped. "Actually, there were two natives living in their home at the time. I know because we happened upon Henry's employers in town and he introduced us. They were staying with the Meyers' and learning the ways of the English. A man and a woman. I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot recall their names for the life of me."

A period of weighty silence descended upon the three of them, as William grew deep in thought. The lawyers of Charles Town were most likely inexperienced in the ways of criminal cases, which could account for them coming to a conclusion so quickly. Or perhaps they _did_ know what they were talking about...in either case, the two witnesses would be key in understanding what had happened.

"I suppose they shall be unable to complain if we deliver the documents in person," Julia remarked, standing. "I will arrange for Sir Charnocks to watch the Constabulary while we're away." She was speaking, of course, about Bridgetown's longtime esquire, who had incidentally booked Mr. Meyers for his crimes the first time around.

She moved past the two of them towards the door, dealing a loaded glance towards William over Emily's shoulder, as if to say _you'd better be ready to go by the time I get back._

-0-

" _Temperance_ is the fastest of her kind," Emily assured them as she lead the procession towards the docks. "If we catch the right wind, we will arrive in a fortnight and a day."

"You don't need to convince me; I remember," Julia laughed, shouldering her belongings and half of William's. Her companion had neglected to pack as lightly; some habits were hard to break.

The man in question trailed a few steps behind, completing the mental checklist he had to run through whenever they went anywhere. No matter how many times she insisted he _shouldn't_ , he always asked if she'd bothered to lock the door, even though he'd been standing _right there_ when she had.

"Did you hand the key off to the clerk at Charnocks & Sons?"

"Yes."

"Did you let him know that there's someone in the stocks that he should let out tomorrow morning?"

"Yes."

"And did you tell him that he needs to feed Betty?"

"Of course!"

Emily appeared confused, but did not ask questions. For this Julia was glad; she wasn't sure how she'd begin to explain that they kept a sow that was clearly meant for nourishment as a pet.

The docks were eerily quiet for that time of night, though nearly every slot was occupied by a ship, each anchored and bobbing with the motion of the placid tide. The deep water immediately surrounding the island created the effect of a natural lagoon, meaning that any ship could be boarded from gangplanks resting against the boardwalk. As they approached, Emily inserted her pointer and middle finger into her mouth, whistling so loud that Julia was sure it could be heard for miles around.

Two inquisitive faces appeared over the side of the gunwale, their features dimly lit by the lanterns hung from the lower sails. Their hands instantly came out in anticipation of their cargo, catching each pack just as it hit the top of its arc at their eye level. Julia was first onto the gangplank, which was barely thick enough to accommodate the width of one foot. She clambered across it with practiced ease, followed shortly by Emily. Faint sounds of joyous reunion were heard from overhead.

William took a deep breath. When he'd stepped off the _Arcadia_ two years ago, he'd silently sworn that he would never again board another ship. The sea didn't agree with him, nor did the transient lifestyle. But then he thought of Henry, the bright young man who had done him a favor and who stood to be put to death if he did not intervene. With a burst of courage, he charged up the gangplank, missing the last foothold by a fraction of an inch.

Fortunately someone was there to prevent him from falling into the sea; a pair of hands reached out and seized him by the shirt, hauling him onto the deck and pulling up the gangplank after him. Stumbling to his feet in an attempt to save face, William was shocked to see none other than George Crabtree.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, sir!" The indefatigable young man cried, vigorously shaking his hand. "I could only wish it was under better circumstances."

All around them, women were preparing the sails for departure. They seemed to catch on to the nonverbal command issued by their captain, whose body language could only convey urgency to the highest degree. _Haul wind and Carolina ho!_

"Likewise, George. We wish to bring a swift end to Henry's predicament, and with the least amount of strife possible."

"That's good to hear," he replied earnestly, then walked past him towards Captain Grace. "How are ye faring, my sweet?"

She treated him to the first genuine smile of the night. "Just fine. Now, I recall you telling me to steer clear of the taverns, but the girls were itching to get off the boat and I couldn't just…"

" _Women_!" George cried in mock exasperation, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Sir Murdoch, you remember what they say about wives. You can point them to the northern star, and they're more than likely to head south."

"Well, I wouldn't-" William confessed, but was interrupted.

"You're _married_?" Julia asked.

"You're _not_?" Emily retorted, genuinely surprised.

-0-

A few hours later, Julia found herself standing at the forecastle of the _Temperance_ , watching the bow crash over the breakers far below. A skeleton crew had remained awake to keep the ship traveling in the right direction, while George lead the charge below decks for the rest of the women. Even William had taken his leave of her, electing to get enough sleep so that in the morning he could see the case with fresh eyes.

It was strange. She had been so content with her life on land, with her medical practice and her time with William. But now, with the sea breeze whipping about her hair and teasing her skirt…. _by God_ , _how she missed this._

Emily joined her after a bit, barefoot with her braids undone. As the wind rushed towards them, plastering her nightgown to her body, Julia realized the obvious, the gentle curve to her abdomen that she'd not noticed before.

"How far along are you?" She questioned, fancying that as a queer way to start a conversation. It would explain their hesitance to leave Charles Town in the spring.

The young woman smiled, standing close enough that their elbows touched. "Four or five months, I estimate. George and I wed some time before that. It was very sudden, really, we realized we were living as married without putting a name to it. I'm hoping it's a girl."

"Our ladies will like that. Have you told them?"

She shook her head. "Goodness knows it will be a frenzy. I'm sure Rebecca's mother already suspects something. We should be thankful she doesn't speak much English."

Julia smiled, remembering the day the elderly woman joined her crew. The morning had dawned on Hacienda de la Vega with both proprietors dead due to their own treachery. They had played key roles in the murder of Luisa, the illegitimate daughter of Rebecca and Mateo de la Vega, who had perished delivering a map into Murdoch's hands, one that had lead them directly to the body. Anyhow, the liberated slaves scattered in all direction, desperate to start their lives anew now they were delivered from bondage. It had been the obvious choice for Julia to welcome Rebecca back into the crew, regardless of the secrets she kept or the double life she had lead, because she was a hard worker and a kindred spirit and above all, the women of the _Temperance_ were a _family_.

"Should I be calling you Captain Crabtree, then?" She teased.

Emily let out a short bark of laughter. "Heavens, no! We wouldn't want to give the man any delusions of grandeur."

Her sense of humor was still very much the same. Julia found comfort in this. She supposed she had also behaved similarly as a young captain, the same age as her counterpart was presently, drunk on her newfound independence and power.

"And you? I was under the impression that Sir Murdoch asked you to stay behind to have you as his bride." A crosswind caught them both by surprise, casting another uncharacteristic chill to the summer night. Feeling a sudden surge of companionship, Julia hooked her elbow around Emily's and leaned in close enough for their heads to touch. She stared straight ahead, watching as the bow sluiced through the water, the figurehead of Athena guiding the way with hands outstretched. It was true that William had made some allusion to betrothal or at the very least courtship, but they hadn't discussed it and she didn't feel the need to press the issue. To Julia, the idea of marriage brought forth memories of her father handing her off to a man twice her age, of feeling helpless, of leaving her childhood home in the dead of night and never looking back. Not a day passed where she didn't think about all she'd left behind, or what had befallen her father or her younger sister. She could have saved her, with the slightest bit of foresight.

"As was I," she answered truthfully.

All was quiet for a few minutes, save for the churning of the waves and the sails being stretched by the wind. Then Emily prodded her memory: "Do you remember what you said to me two years ago, when we caught sight of the _Arcadia_ engaged with that Spanish vessel on the horizon?"

Of course she did. That was the day she had met William, and her life changed forever. It had always been their practice to ask one question before leaping into battle, stemming from their early days as a crew when turning and beating a hasty retreat back to England was still a distinct possibility.

"I believe I asked you if you were ready for one last adventure."

"And are you?"

Her response was automatic: "Certainly."

 _(to be continued)_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Wow, this chapter is _long_! Just a small disclaimer on the Native American culture presented here: it is based on the traditions of the Creek/Muscogee nation. One of the major reasons this sequel was delayed was my desire to do the culture justice, and not commit any egregious faux pas. If you notice anything completely glaring, please let me know so it can be fixed! Finding native Muscogee names posed some difficulty. More about that in the next chapter when we dive headlong into that subplot.

Next time: A second interrogation. A destined meeting, and a journey begins.

 **Mistress of Discord**

 **Chapter Three**

"Having any luck, sir?" George asked, rolling a barrel over to where Murdoch sat on the quarterdeck.

He shook his head, setting down his pencil for the first time in a matter of hours. Over the past twenty-three days, he had taken statements from every person aboard, taking the time to cross-examine the women if necessary. Only one person claimed to see Higgins on the night of the murder; he'd listened to George's retelling of the events so many times he could play it over in his head as if he'd been there. Sheets of parchment lay on the barrel before him, littered with scribbles and criss-crossing lines. Without more information, he could not establish if a link existed between the accused and the deceased. Therefore he was left to speculate and worry. And if there was one thing William _detested_ , it was feeling useless.

"Unfortunately, no," he answered, closing his eyes and massaging his temples. Presently they were sitting in the shade of the mainsail, which whipped and cracked as it fought against the wind. If he craned his neck, he could barely make out the form of Iris, a long-time crew member who had unfortunately been delegated to look out duty in the crow's nest. The woman was dreadfully bored and dangerously close to dozing off, a spyglass loosely held against her chest. Every so often Captain Grace would pass by on her rounds, crying out and startling the poor woman. For the past few days, every report had been pretty much the same: _no land in sight, strong surf, nary a cloud in the sky._

Last week had been a different story; about halfway between Bermuda and Puerto Rico, the _Temperance_ had run into an ominous patch of calm sea that had delayed their journey by a day or more. All day and all night, dark clouds had gathered overhead, the waves failed to churn, and the air fairly sizzled with something that made everyone's hair stand on end. As the ship lacked oars big enough to make a difference in their progress, the Captain briefly entertained the thought of tossing some ballast overboard to lighten their load. But then the skies had opened up and they were once again on their way, the next morning finding that they were inexplicably three leagues west of their anticipated location.

The young man clicked his tongue. "That's a pity. Say, do you not find it strange that we haven't seen any other ships along the way? It feels like we might be the last people on earth."

"I should hope not. We're running low on rations," he said, slightly amused by that romantic notion.

George reached back and removed his ponytail, letting his hair flow freely around his shoulders. He then stole a glance to the left and the right, before leaning in and confessing, "I must confess that I'm not sure how I shall handle fatherhood."

William made a shushing motion and pointed directly upward. Emily's crew functioned like a small village in the way that everyone knew the business of their peers. He didn't want to unintentionally betray their confidence. "Hypothetically, George, I would say that you were more than prepared."

He was treated to a blank look. "You know, if you _were_ to become a father. It's not happening now, but it could in the future." He added a wink for good measure.

"Ah!" George cried, a little too loudly. Then, quieter: "I fail to see how. I've been at sea for as long as I've had my wits. My income isn't reliable, and it's a dangerous place for any child I _may or may not_ have in the future."

So it was. William wouldn't want to endeavor to child rear on a privateering vessel, but in his time with George's kind he had found them to be more resourceful than the educated high society of Cambridge. _George's kind_ -that wasn't precisely correct- _my people_ , he thought. Every moment he spent with them, he absorbed their way of life and shed his inhibitions, much like a flower blooming in the sun.

Of course he couldn't express this to George, not in so many words. William excelled at phrasing scientific ideas or facts, but in matters of the heart he was slightly lacking. So instead, he clapped his hand on the young man's knee and said, "I _know_ you will be ready."

High above them came the sound of the mainmast rattling. Iris had stood up suddenly, leaning over the edge of the crow's nest and shouting, "Land ho! Land ho!"

At the helm, Rebecca reached for her spyglass, only to have it snatched out of her hands by Captain Grace. The barest hint of green lay on the horizon, growing larger by the second.

"Avast ye! Come about, ladies!"

-0-

Charles Town proper stood at the confluence of two rivers, the projection of the land forming the shape of a curved finger pointing out to sea. They made the turn hard to port and came into the channel. To one side facing the Ashley River, William could make out marshes and farmland as far as the eye could see. More than a dozen ships were presently docked on the waterfront facing the Cooper River, each proudly flying the cross of Saint Andrew or Saint George. As they grew closer, he could make out several multi-storied buildings built in the style of the lesser nobility, facing one another along a main thoroughfare. Merchants had set up their wares in storefronts and booths close to the water, creating a dazzling display of commerce and westward expansion the crown was so keen to push on the colonists. Indeed, many settlements on the continent only existed due to generous bequeathments to lords that the King owed money or favors to in some way. But William could not afford to put so much thought into it, for after three weeks at sea his heart cried out joyously: _Civilization_!

Julia came topside after a while, joining the other women in whooping and waving to the people on the land. They were still moving at a reasonable clip several moments later when three or four women bent down to the chain, deploying the anchor as they came into port and slowed to a gradual halt just as the bow bumped against the quay.

"How long do you suppose…?" One of the women questioned, watching their Captain disembark to speak with the port authority. The young man with the clipboard merely took down the name of the ship and walked away, mumbling to himself as he went. It occurred to William that they had received a warmer reception coming in to San Juan.

"Five minutes," someone else replied, eyes trained on the row of ships anchored to their left and right.

He wasn't sure what they were talking about until several moments later two figures approached. One belonged to a gentleman who cut a rather imposing figure, leaning heavily on a cane as he walked, one eye covered with a patch and his bushy mustache drawn up into points. His companion was a battle worn woman of middle age, wearing tall boots he knew to possess at least one firearm. It may have seen confrontational to wear a gun belt into a residential town, but the lady's posture indicated she was not one to trifle with.

Turning to Julia he noticed she was not dressed as she normally was, the white shirt and canvas breaches suitable for island life, but in an unimposing blue dress befitting the middle class of Charles Town. As she turned to clamber down the gangplank, he noticed two flintlock pistols tucked into the back of her waistband into the folds of her skirt, ready for action. Some things never changed.

Captain Thomas Brackenreid, known to his friends as Brax, greeted them with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. The man was notoriously one track minded, even cross with those that didn't see his way. His voice had a peculiar wheezing tone that William couldn't easily remember, as if he was straining for breath; it occurred to him that this must have been a result of him being shot by Salma de la Vega, an injury that would never completely heal.

But his smile was genuine, and he shook William's hand and tipped his tricornered hat toward Julia. Margaret offered her greetings, her cockney accent prominent as ever, and embraced her former captain.

"I daresay it's been a long time," William said, noticing that the crew of the ship immediately next to them was hanging on every word.

"Too long," Brax asserted. "We have stalled for as long as we could, at the expense of the _Arcadia_ 's reputation. Meyers may be dead, but his cause lives on. There are eyes and ears everywhere."

"How do you mean?"

He huffed and turned away. "Later, Murdoch. I insist you speak to Sir Jarvis right away. He will no longer pay me any mind, but perhaps he will listen to a man of your caliber."

"How much longer?" Captain Grace asked, betraying her anxiety.

"Four days."

William's heart rate immediately picked up. He knew next to nothing about the case and had less than a week to clear the name of an innocent man. "George!"

The young man's head popped up from behind the gunwale instantly, eyebrows raised in surprise. His appetite for adventure would truly never be satisfied.

"Fetch my files and come along."

-0-

The law offices of James, James, Jarvis and James were housed in what might be the grandest building in all of Charles Town. It was taller than a half dozen men laid toe to head, painted the purest of eggshell white. The building not only had shutters, but glass panes in the windows, the first ones William had seen since leaving England. The first interior room boasted several plush chairs, decorated with velvet and lace trimmings. Below his feet were wooden panels, not the packed in dirt of the constabulary back in Bridgetown. Lanterns were mounted to the wall on either side of a fireplace he suspected had never been used. A framed portrait hung above the mantle, depicting four men dressed in their finest ruffs and feathered hats.

"We ought to wait outside," Brax said, referring to George, Emily, Margaret, and himself. "The last time we were here, Jarvis said he'd sooner shoot us down than let us interfere with this case."

This was surprising, considering none of the men in the painting looked hardy enough to incur physical damage. Nevertheless, William nodded and they departed, leaving he and Julia alone in the luxuriant waiting area.

A desk sat between two chairs immediately opposite the hearth, currently unoccupied. There were five doors on the other end of the room, four of which he supposed lead to offices and the last to living quarters at the rear of the house. Just as he was about to investigate, the middle door opened, revealing the top half of a well-dressed man of about twenty-five.

"Welcome," he began in the poshest of accents, studying them with squinted eyes. "I am Roger James, one of the fellows here at James, James, Jarvis and James. What may I help you with, Mr…?"

"Sir William Murdoch." He extended his hand to shake, only to regret not bothering to spruce up before disembarking. James sized him up, his cloth loafers and utilitarian vest, suspicious of his intent. And he knew what he must be thinking: _This man has been knighted?_

The lawyer suddenly noticed there was someone else in the room and nodded his head toward her. "Julia Ogden. It's a pleasure to-"

"What do you need, Sir Murdoch?" He interrupted. William felt Julia tense up beside him.

"I am the head of the constabulary on Barbados. I received a request for records concerning a case." He removed the file from under his arm and made a show of flipping through the pages. "If I may, I would like to speak to Sir Samuel Jarvis. He's the one that sent for them."

"Of course, of course. I'll let him know," Roger assured them, a little too enthusiastically. The middle door closed and a few seconds later one on the end opened and the man in question stepped through.

William and Julia exchanged an indecipherable glance. Samuel Jarvis was an older gentleman with soft hands and a perpetually dour expression. He shook William's hand and introduced himself, his voice surprisingly deep and his grip strong. Stepping aside, he admitted his guests into his office.

"I must admit that I was not anticipating you deliver the records in person," he began, crossing to behind his desk. "Please, sit down."

Julia obliged, but William remained standing. He seemed to be taken in by the egregious displays of wealth that surrounded him, from the tapestries hanging on every wall to the multiple peacock quill pens resting in an ink well on the desk. Great lengths had been taken to disguise the whitewashed walls, to turn something common to positively regal. Silently, he thought that any lawyer who made this much money couldn't be trusted.

"It's an honor to make your acquaintance, Sir Jarvis. I'm Julia Ogden, the coroner from Bridgetown Constabulary. We have come to offer our assistance with the case." She met his gaze and smiled.

Like most men, Jarvis was not immune to the charms of a beautiful woman. "That is very kind of you, madam, but wholly unnecessary. We have caught the culprit and he stands to be executed at the end of the week."

A long silence followed, during which William made a complete circuit of the room, picking up various curios, studying them, and putting them back down. This was a conscious effort to assert his dominance over the esquire, a tactic that he himself would have fallen for himself as a young man climbing the ladder. He wasn't sure it would work, but it was worth a shot.

"Charles Town is lovely. I have heard some say it is the next London. Curious that it was settled by plantation owners from Barbados." He finally sat, placing the file at the end of the desk.

Jarvis smirked. "Only partially."

"I took the liberty of glancing through the deceased's records. He was from Barbados as well. His family owned a plantation to the north of the island; when he came into the inheritance, he sold it to finance his journey to Carolina. If I'm not mistaken, that gives me some sort of jurisdiction," William continued. He knew it was a long shot, but it was the only chance they had.

Slowly, Jarvis reached out and swiped the file off the table and into a drawer. "Hardly. The orders come from God, to King Charles, to the lords, to _me_ , bypassing you entirely. It will continue to happen as such until we have a constable of our own. Perhaps this was not the case in Yarmouth or San Juan."

Murdoch had to fight to hold back his grimace. _How did he know about that?_

"The accused was my clerk for over a year. He sat at the desk in the lobby and told me all about his misadventures with you on that privateering vessel. Pity he killed Meyers, but love has driven men to do insane things." His grin was positively malicious, as he leaned in to deliver the final riposte: "I will indulge your instincts, but will not stay the execution. You may snoop about all you like, but you will find that my logic is infallible. Henry Higgins is guilty of murder and shall be punished accordingly."

Julia found him oddly emotionless for a man whose employee had supposedly committed such a heinous crime. She spotted a fine white tailed deer hide draped across the far end of the desk and sought to break the tension building. "That is a fine pelt you have there, sir."

He leaned back and retrieved the item, holding it tantalizingly out of their grasps. "Thank you. We trade with the natives for rum and other fripperies, and they supply the merchants with enough deer pelts to have generations of their family live comfortably. This particular one was given to me by the chief of the local tribe and his sister. They've taken their leave of us, but they did live in the Meyers household for some time to learn the ways of civilization."

Both took mental note of these names. Before Jarvis could realize he was volunteering information useful to them, Julia burst out, "We would like to speak to Mr. Higgins."

Jarvis stood. "By all means. He's being held in the shed out back. Do not expect him to be particularly coherent; he has only had the company of his own thoughts for the past two months."

-0-

The two were escorted out the back door by Roger James, who pointed them towards the cells and slammed the door. It was twice the size of their stocks back in Barbados; pulling on the door, William found it was unlocked. Indoors, he found two cells with bars barely wide enough to fit a man's hand.

The formerly boisterous young man was huddled in a corner with his back to them, clothing tattered and shivering regardless of the seasonably warm weather. As the door closed behind them, he flinched and turned to one side.

"Sir Murdoch?" He croaked, voice hoarse with disuse. "Miss Ogden? Is it really you?"

Feeling a surge of motherly instinct, Julia crouched down and reached through the bars. He crawled forward and took it, indulging in the first physical contact with another person he'd had in a long time. "We're here to help you, Henry. The _Temperance_ brought us as fast as they could."

"They're going to kill me. That bastard Roger reminds me every time he brings me the morning meal. Says they shall hang me until my skin turns blue and my tongue lolls out. And then they will toss me in the river along with the rest of the trash." He continued to shake, dangerously close to tears.

William soon joined them on the ground, removing a folded piece of parchment from his pocket and a pencil. "Listen to me, Henry. We are going to clear your name, but we need you to be completely honest with us. Nothing but the truth. Do you understand?"

He nodded, curling up against the bars.

"What were you doing the night that Terrence Meyers was murdered?"

"I was with some lads from the _Arcadia_ , and around midnight I went for a walk." A tear escaped his eye and made its way down his cheek, leaving a pale streak through the grime.

"Where?"

"Along the waterfront."

"Can anyone attest to your whereabouts?"

"Only my bunkmate. I got back an hour or so later."

That didn't exactly help their case; rather, it made matters a bit more complicated. "Did you walk take you anywhere near the Meyers residence? Had you been there before?"

"No!" He cried passionately, squeezing Julia's hand for dear life. "I had been there a few times, on formal dinners with the firm, but I did _not_ kill him and I was not involved with _that woman_!"

"Ruby Rosevear?" Julia asked quietly.

"That _snake_! She would not leave me be, sir! Following me around like a lost dog! If you don't mind me saying, in a manner most unbecoming of a married woman."

If anyone was loitering around the shed, they probably heard every word that was said. William leaned closer and all but whispered: "Would you care to elaborate?"

-0-

Around the front of the building, the waiting party was growing concerned. "What do you suppose is taking them so long?"

Brax sighed and removed his hat, wiping the sweat off his brow. "I wouldn't venture to say for certain, Captain Grace."

Emily was already tired, and her feet and back were starting to hurt. George leaned against one of the porch pillars nearby, eyes trained on the people traversing up and down the street.

The main thoroughfare was unnaturally wide, though the side streets were a series of cramped alleyways and dead ends. The people were a queer mixture of middle class, working men without wives, and visiting sailors. Charles Town proper was hardly half a mile square which ended abruptly facing the wilderness. Out beyond the final log cabin, there were only rolling hills and intermittent marshes for as far as the eye could see. In her first weeks here, Emily had learned that to the south and west lived communities of natives, called Creeks for the tendency to settle near moving bodies of water. But they were miles off in either direction, and standing at the boundary of the town in the waving grasses had felt like looking out onto a boundless sea.

Beside her, Margaret was growing restless. Recounts of her husband's exploits only served to incense her anger with their situation. Emily was sure that if they weren't before the discerning eyes of the public that she would be fiddling with her pistols, tucked securely into her boots.

While her crew left in search of William and Julia, the crew of the _Arcadia_ had tried everything in their power to dissect the life of Terrence Meyers. He was a simple well-to-do business man to those who didn't know any better, but anyone who tried to gain some purchase into the town's lucrative shipping trade was bound to run afoul of him at some point. Meyers had been known to lend money and then financially or socially cripple the man if he could not pay back the sum; if that didn't work, he sent his lackeys after them for a bit of physical persuasion. They had spoken to the owner of a local general store, who confided that the man had attempted to menace him several times in person. Last year, a tavern owner behind on his payments had disappeared, only to be found weeks later face down in a nearby swamp. Meyers also made a practice of making severe land grabs, snapping up plots in every direction of Charles Town and not caring whose toes he stepped on in the process. It seemed to Brax that the culprit must have been a disgruntled borrower, or one of the henchmen looking to rise up in the ranks.

 _And just who stood to took his place?_ He was ashamed to say that he did not know, for Meyers' lot had been oddly quiet since the death. But he knew that something was afoot; men came and went at odd hours, money changed hands on the streets, and business owners drew the shutters whenever certain patrons came to call. He may have only had the use of one eye, but he certainly wasn't _blind_.

"If only we could find that native girl," George mused, "I bet she knows something. Sir Murdoch might like to talk to her."

"Don't look now," Margaret began cautiously. "She's standing by the post at the end of the street."

Automatically, Brax's head came around to confirm this.

"I told you not to look!" She hissed, savagely taking hold of his arm.

None of them moved for a few seconds. The girl looked confused, lost, but turned and began to walk in their direction.

"What shall we do?" Emily wondered aloud, for it was probably a good idea to have Murdoch with them to give the ensuing interrogation some degree of legitimacy.

They did not have time to discuss it, for in the next moment George was off, running full pelt after her. "Hey you! Stop right there!"

Margaret charged after him, and briefly Emily also gave chase, only to slow to a halt while clutching her stomach. _No, that was most certainly not a good idea in her current state._

Captain Brackenreid hobbled after her, coming to stand beside her in the middle of the avenue. If a native girl walking alone through an English town would attract attention by herself, a native girl being pursued by two sailors was enough to turn heads. "Through the alleyway! Let's see if we can cut her off."

And so she moved away, moving as fast as she could while also hunched over a bit. The next street over was considerably narrower than the last; catching a glimpse of who was waiting for her, the girl turned through an alleyway on the opposite end of the street and disappeared. Gathering her skirts, Emily continued her pursuit, catching a glimpse of Brax. He moved quickly, though his motions were ever so stately, befitting an afternoon stroll.

To her left on the next street, George and Margaret were very near to catching up to the girl, when Brax stepped from the shadows. His cane came out in a flash, tripping the girl and causing her to fall forward, landing in a sprawl with Margaret on top of her.

Before she even caught up with them, George had helped the ladies to their feet and together they proceeded into the nearest alley.

"You," Emily said sheepishly, embarrassed that she didn't remember her name. "Do you recognize me?"

George tightened his grip on her arm, while their resident sharpshooter held one of her pistols just inside of her eyeline. Coupled with the hulking frame of Brax standing guard to block the view from the street, the girl appeared to be in quite the dire position.

Really, calling her a girl wouldn't be proper, for she seemed to be around Emily's age. It was her stature that betrayed her maturity, as she stood a full head shorter than her, and her limbs were skinny and lithe, like those of a child. She was quite beautiful, with almond shaped eyes and dark hair that was wound about her head in an intricate style interwoven with colored ribbons. Her deerskin dress cut close to the body and sported no pattern, emphasizing the copious amount of bracelets and necklaces she wore. She was presently striving to hide her fear, eyes wide and jaw clenched. Emily saw her nod quickly.

"My name is Emily. What's yours?" She held out her hand and the girl tentatively took it with her free arm, giving it the cursory lift.

When she spoke, it was with an accent none of them had heard before. It was melodious, lilting, drawing out each vowel and rendering every _r_ silent. "Hachi. Before you begin, I must warn you that I am the sister of Chief Yahola. Any blood of mine that is shed will be returned tenfold at the expense of your men."

George let go of her arm immediately, pleasantly surprised by the young woman's pluck. "We just want to ask a few questions. Did you not for some time live in the home of Terrence Meyers?"

"I did, fled right after the death of that poor soul. I, as well as my brother, were learning the English language from him and his wife."

"You speak it very well," George told her in what he believed to be a compliment.

"I would wager to say that you speak my language poorly," she retorted, clearly not in the mood for any pandering comments today.

"We are working with a lawman to clear the name of Henry Higgins. We believe him innocent and need your help," Emily explained.

She cut a glance between the three of them. "Is Jarvis involved?"

"I assure you he is not."

"Well," Hachi smiled, "I would be much obliged, Emily, as long as your friend puts her weapon away."

Margaret hastily holstered her gun and stepped aside.

Together they stepped into the street and began to walk back in the direction of the law firm, not caring to acknowledge the scene they'd created minutes earlier. Hachi walked alongside the sharpshooter at a companionable distance. Loud enough for the others to hear, she said, "I shall trust you as long as you trust me. Believe me, my friend, I am not the one you should fear."

 _(to be continued)_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you everyone for your reviews! I promised I would discuss our Creek characters' names. Historical examples I found were multi-hyphenated that didn't necessary lend themselves to memorization. Then it occurred to me that they wouldn't necessarily tell the English their full names because they would be aware of this. Sort of like nicknames. Hachi means _stream_ , Chitto means _brave_ , and Yahola means _whooping_ or _joyful shouter_.

Next time: Further investigation at the native camp, and Murdoch crosses paths with Ruby for the first time.

 **Mistress of Discord**

 **Chapter Four**

The two parties reconvened in the ward room of the _Temperance_. Before they even had a chance to exchange greetings with their guest, Emily removed the rum from its hiding place and poured a glass for everyone in attendance.

"Have you never tried it?" She asked Hachi, who was staring curiously at the amber liquid.

"The English trade for pelts with this. I've seen the men drinking it, great amounts at a time. They lose their wits when they do this, stumbling around and falling over." Beside her, Margaret downed hers in one go, which gave her the courage to take a rather delicate sip.

Her brows furrowed and she pulled quite the disgusted face, sputtering into her hand. Once she had recovered, Emily assured her, "It's an acquired taste."

"I'm not very fond of it either," William confided, sitting across from her to assume a conversational stance with a fresh sheet of parchment laid before him.

Brax was trying his best not to appear confrontational as was his natural manner, peering out the porthole at the end of the chamber straight out to the dreary marshes on the opposite bank of the river. Every so often he would nod, as if what he was witnessing was of great interest. Julia sat beside the native girl, having ditched her pistols on the floor next to the door. George remained to her immediate left, studying his fingernails intently. Each were striving mightily not to appear threatening; due to her time spent with Terrence Meyers, it was more than likely that Hachi had a negative impression of the English.

"How did you know the deceased, Miss Hachi?"

" _Just_ Hachi."

"I beg your pardon?" Over his shoulder, Emily grimaced. _Off to a great start already._

"I have no surname," she explained.

Murdoch made a contemplative sound in the back of his throat and corrected his witness log. "Hachi, when did you first become acquainted with Mr. Meyers?"

Her posture inexplicably wilted, sitting back in her chair with a forlorn expression. Finally, she broke decorum and pulled her knees up, sitting bowlegged. "Last harvest. My brothers were with a hunting party and saw smoke rising on the horizon. Following its trail, they found a new settlement, populated with the likes they had never before seen. Pale skin, dark clothes heavy and immobile, and a foul mood hanging over their heads like a raincloud. No offense."

He shrugged as if to indicate that none was taken, scribbling away furiously.

"They were just as intrigued by us as we were them. We did not speak the same language, but we made do with gestures. Meyers was the first to trade with us. It was the first time I had seen such things. Beads that look like little jewels, cloth in colors that do not appear in nature, and _muskets_! They have made hunting much easier for my people, sir."

Hachi went on to explain that as a gesture of good will she and her brother Yahola had lived among the English for almost a year, learning their language and customs. She chose not to think of it as an insurance policy, but with two of their own living in Charles Town, it made sure that her tribe never once considered running them off. Soon after she left home, another woman arrived from across the sea. Ruby was the daughter of one of Terrence's main business partners, and had been sent over along with a considerable dowry. Such an age difference was unthinkable to her people, Hachi assured them, as children were pledged to one another from birth. Anyhow, the woman had been nothing but nice to her, and seeing that they were in the same season of life, they became good friends. But her time with the family was limited.

"Why would that be?" William cut in.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Meyers was determined to have my brother Chitto sign over some of our territory. He would pay a handsome sum for it, he claimed. But this land has been with us for generations, since the time of the ancestors. We wouldn't hear of it."

"I suppose this made him angry."

"It did. But we never had another chance to discuss it. Ruby and I found him dead the next morning. He'd been shot."

"Did you see anyone entering the home during the night?"

"No."

"Do you have any suspicions as to who might have done it?"

Hachi opened her mouth to speak, then shut it quickly. She made eye contact with Emily, then looked away and leaned across the table towards the lawman. "I do not wish to incriminate anyone, sir. It is not our way to take any man's life, whether actively or passively."

Somewhere deep down, Brax admired her sense of justice, but it was getting them nowhere in the investigation. "What about Henry Higgins?"

The young woman shook her head. "He came around to visit with Sir Jarvis frequently, but I do not believe him guilty. He is pure of heart, or as pure as an Englishman can be."

"Jarvis believes he killed Meyers over his affections for Ruby, for if he were dead he would be able to take her as his wife." Julia reminded her, noticing how her jaw clenched and she grew a bit red in the face.

"No, no," she protested, "that is a truly jealous and evil act. Higgins was a friend of yours, so I am sure you know he has good intentions. Ruby had a wandering eye and often flaunted herself before him, but he _never_ showed any indication of a covetous nature. You must believe me. I do not believe him capable of shooting anyone."

Julia reached over to pat her hand, showing her silently that _they did._ But Hachi didn't know just how wrong she was…in her mind's eye, she couldn't shake the image of Mateo de la Vega's crumpled body, of Henry's shaking hands and smoking gun.

Wisely, William decided to change the course of the questioning. "Which brother stayed with you in the Meyers home?"

"Yahola. He is now the Chief."

"It strikes me as a poor tactical move for a chief to live outside the village, should he have to lead the men in battle against invading forces."

"You are right, sir. During the time we lived in Charles Town, my oldest brother Chitto was Chief."

"And whatever happened to him?"

"He is dead. A sudden contagious sickness, it took several lives before taking its leave of us. Yahola returned to the village to lead, and I remained. Only Ruby and I were in the home during the time of the murder," Hachi said plaintively, twiddling her thumbs.

During this round of conversation, Brax had left his post by the porthole and come to stand at the table. Like everyone else, he found this statement questionable. "I should like to speak to him."

"By all means. Our village is a two days' journey away by foot, or one if we could borrow some horses."

"I'm sure we can arrange that with the port authority," Julia remarked.

"Very well." He retrieved his cane from leaning against the wall paneling and gestured toward the door. "I'll take Margaret and Captain Grace."

His logic was simple and sound: Margaret would be able to defend them should they come into a spot of trouble, and Emily seemed to have a special bond with the girl. Even William agreed that he would feel more comfortable if Julia remained with him.

All rose to their feet; the lawman shook hands with Hachi, who took her leave of them rather quickly. Once she was gone, George explained all that Brax had relayed to him about Meyers' crooked business dealings and wondered, "You don't suppose the old chief, this Chitto fellow, may have promised the land to Meyers and then backed out of it, do you? Meyers may have had him killed out of spite, and then the new chief murdered him in revenge."

The young man's powers of deduction were growing stronger. At the moment, that was William's suspicion as well. "My only reservation is the time frame. At two days there and two days back by foot, his absence must have been noticed. We must consider that Meyers was killed by someone here in town."

George frowned, tracing patterns into the table with his finger. Suddenly he leaned back and crossed his arms. "Sir, even if Henry was exonerated, I doubt Jarvis would ever employ him again."

"Sadly, this may be true. Perhaps he will rejoin the _Arcadia_ ," Julia said.

"That's not what he would want," Crabtree exclaimed, "I'm surprised that the firm immediately accused an Englishman, rather than go after the natives."

"It is because the English need them. They wouldn't risk angering them, for many of our kind believe them to be savages," William stated regretfully, never having bought into the xenophobic diatribe. From initial impressions, the natives seemed enlightened, gentle, and kind. But it was man's nature to fear the unfamiliar, and although it went against God's wishes for his children to despise one another, nothing could change that the English overcompensated for their fear with hatred.

Julia stood and tucked her guns back into her waistband. "Gentlemen, I suggest you arm yourselves. It would behoove us to look further into Meyers' business."

"Are we looking for trouble?"

She regarded George with a wry smile. "Unless it finds us first."

-0-

Leaving the protective borders of Charles Town felt like walking off the edge of the world. After dictating to Rebecca that she was in charge for the time being, Emily had jumped onto the rented horse and prayed no injury would come to her unborn child. The jostling motions weren't comfortable, but she didn't dare confess her secret to any of her companions. She didn't need any pity. This wasn't about her.

The farther they grew from civilization, the faster they rode. Brax was in a similar predicament; he breath was raspy, one hand on his side and the other on the reins.

Their party stopped to rest as soon as the first stars were visible in the sky. Hachi led them to a swell in the land where a clearing had been made, surprising them all by producing a fire seemingly out of nowhere. She explained that this was a spot her people often spent the night during hunting expeditions; to the north lay expansive forests where all manners of dangerous creatures lived, and they couldn't risk sleeping among the trees.

And so Emily had unrolled her pack to lay on the ground, burying her knife belt in the dust a short distance away. If Hachi had wanted to kill them, she would have had ample time to do so. She awoke with renewed trust of the young woman, who was rolling stones over the smoldering remnants of their fire.

A few hours later, they came upon the village. It was rather sudden; the land dipped down into a natural valley where a creek flowed south to north, and a few dozen rectangular huts were laid around it in a C-shape. Growing closer, she was able to discern they were made from grass and vines woven into a frame, which had then been coated with mud. The roof was shingled with bark, and blankets served as makeshift doors.

Around the perimeter, several men stood talking amongst themselves. Each carried a weapon of some sort, bows, maces and clubs among them, and sported extensive body paint on their extremities. Some wore feathers in their hair, or elaborate headdresses made out of some sort of stiff quill. What was most shocking to Emily was their clothing, or lack of it-indeed, most of them wore loincloths or short breeches that left them dangerously exposed, their upper halves completely bare!

To her surprise, the men let them past. On the interior of the circle, women abounded, bent to their daily chores. Many were dressed like Hachi; a few even wore ruffled skirts and linen. Several women, noted to have infants wrapped in a sling on their backs, were barechested.

The children that played in and around the creek were completely nude and without embarrassment; something about this comforted Emily. They were innocent to the truest extent of the word, and all the happier for it.

One of the ladies stood and fled to a nearby hut that seemed a bit more substantial than all the others. Seconds later, she was joined by a gentleman they took to be Chief Yahola. His headdress was certainly taller than those of the other men, and he wore a feathered sash embroidered with scenes from what she took to be their mythological canon. His eyes brightened with recognition when he saw Emily.

For a minute or two, Hachi and he exchanged words, speaking quietly in their native language.

"Welcome to our home," he began, dipping his head to each of them. His accent was just as prominent as that of his sister, perhaps even stronger. "I see you have brought nothing to trade. This is just as well. We have not had visitors in a long time. Please, I invite you to share our midday meal."

"We have just come to ask a few questions-" Brax insisted, not sure how to address the illustrious man before him. _Your Excellency? Your Grace? Sir?_

"Nonsense! You've been riding all night and all morning. Come along." He stepped aside to allow the woman who had fetched him to pass, then ducked after her and headed towards the fire.

Yahola seemed to command respect in his every deed; none of them felt the conviction to refuse his request. The unflappable Thomas Brackenreid felt a little intimidated by his authority, yet still felt at ease by his hospitality.

"My brother's wife," Hachi whispered to no one in particular, as the woman in question began to lay woven straw mats in an arc facing the fire. She had a kind face and bright eyes; she laid out four before glancing up at Emily inquisitively. She stood and scurried away, only to return moments later with a body-length pallet stuffed with straw and bound with deer's skin. Pointing at it, and then at Emily's belly, she made it clear that she was to lay down upon it.

"She has a gift for reading the signs," Hachi marveled, placing an open hand on her stomach. "She is the village midwife, after all. Oh, congratulations, Emily!"

Captain Grace stood in place, dumbfounded, for several beats before saying anything. To his credit, Brax barely reacted. Margaret, however, was agape. She was a decade her senior, and always thought that she would be the first to have children, _if at all._ Delicately, she lowered herself onto the ground and relaxed for the first time all day.

As the chief's wife went to fetch the meal, Brax had the opportunity to question the witness. According to Yahola, he had been away visiting another village some miles away on the occasion of his brother's and Meyers' death.

"How much time passed between the two?" Emily asked, scooping up bits of turkey and sweet potato with her fingers. She really had been famished.

"Barely one day," he replied sadly, shaking his head. "Terrible, really, that those tragedies should happen so near to one another."

"Indeed," Brax mumbled, his suspicion growing. "I understand that a disease took the life of Chief Chitto. Who attended to him?"

"The women of the village, seeing as my brother was with the Coyaha and I was in Charles Town," Hachi said.

Margaret and Emily exchanged an dubious glance. Their first instinct would be to question them, but it was their supposition that none of them spoke English and they probably couldn't trust their only available translators. Instead, they expressed their quick condolences and went back to discussing Terrence Meyers.

"I heard that Higgins man killed him. He never seemed the kind to commit an evil deed, but I believe there is great evil that may dwell in the hearts of men," Chief Yahola mused somewhat cryptically.

His wife suddenly appeared at Emily's side, passing a round medallion into her hand. Turning it over, she discovered it was a rock worn smooth by the churning river water, carved with a fan pattern on one side like outstretching rays.

"The sign of the Sun Mother. She gave birth to our people in the beginning. It is meant for good luck," Hachi said.

Emily pressed her palms together and bowed her head, hoping to convey her gratitude. The other woman copied her gesture and treated her to a radiant smile.

"Madam, is that a pistol?" Because she was sitting with her legs bent to one side, the grip of one of Margaret's weapons was sticking out of the top of her boot.

She reached for it, and at the silent encouragement of Brax, handed it over to him. "Careful not to press the-"

"The English have traded for our pelts with a few muskets. Fear not, for I am known to be an excellent shot," Yahola promised them, yet it did not come off sounding like a boast.

"My wife happens to be the best sharpshooter I've ever met." Brax dealt a rare but well-deserved compliment.

"Is that so? Care to have a test of skill?"

If you were to ask Emily at the beginning of the week what she thought she'd be doing, _watching a shooting competition between an English woman and a native tribal chief_ would be at the very bottom of the list. Yet she stood with Brax and Hachi some distance behind them, watching as they took aim at a tree halfway up the curve of the valley.

They both managed to hit a knot in the trunk, then the base of a bush nearby, then a bare stump at almost a vertical angle up the slope. When finally they grew tired of the sport, the pistol was in Chief Yahola's hand. "You are quite the shot, Miss Barlow."

"As are you," she answered, though she secretly thought it was easier to hit stationary targets. She looked between her husband, and the man gazing lovingly upon her gun, and knew what she had to do. "I want you to keep it as a gift." And she handed over the little pouch of spare bullets she kept around her waist.

His expression immediately shifted into one of surprise, wonder, _indebtedness_. "Thank you, I shall forever remember this gesture. Now, if you will excuse me-"

He turned and walked back towards the village, clearly preoccupied with his newest possession.

Margaret sighed, and when she was sure only Brax and Emily could hear here, she hissed, "That one was my _favorite_ …"

 _(to be continued)_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thank you for your reviews! We're halfway done with this story. Next week my classes at university start back up again, so unfortunately I will have less time to write. I promise I will update at least once a week, sometimes more.

This chapter portrays a stomp dance, which is practiced by countless Native American tribes throughout the east. If you're curious, look up a video of it online. It is very difficult to describe in words, though I tried my best.

So, who are we thinking is the titular mistress of discord? Ruby? Hachi? Or someone else? I would love to hear your thoughts... (:

Next time: Another visit to Henry, and Julia takes matters into her own hands.

 **Mistress of Discord**

 **Chapter Five**

They returned to the village with minutes to spare until sundown. The sun was casting its final shadows over the ground, barely visible over the crest of the valley above them. In the dwindling light the fire flickered with exceptional brilliance; the scenes painted onto the torsos of the native men seemed to shift and dance before their very eyes. Even the children settled down, sitting cross-legged in groups, their gaze trained towards the fire. The women ceased to talk amongst themselves, moving swiftly with an unknown purpose.

The English guests were encouraged to sit down. Chief Yahola took leave of them and began to move towards the center of the circle, hands raised towards the heavens. Several other men immediately turned their attention to him, casting aside their weapons and mimicking his gesture.

"They've been awake all day and all night," Hachi whispered reverently, watching as her sister-in-law passed a hollowed out gourd amongst the men. They each took a long draught of whatever was in it, beginning to drag their feet in the grass. "I am willing to bet you have not seen anything like this in England."

Suddenly the Chief shouted something in his native tongue, deep and guttural. The men repeated it. From behind them came the shaking of turtle shell rattles.

He brought his arms towards his chest, bending over slightly and beginning his first circulation of the fire. A woman slipped between Emily and Margaret, a rattle in each hand, and stepped in immediately after him. The second man followed, and then another woman, until there were equal amounts of both gender around the circle.

The incantations continued, kept in time by the rhythm set by the women. As they stepped deftly around the lapping flames, each time growing closer to the embers, they lifted up their skirts enough that Emily could see that several had more than a half dozen rattles strapped to their ankles.

They were halfway through the first song before Brax realized that gooseflesh had erupted on his arms. He shivered irrespective of the summer heat, directing his focus towards the sonorous chanting before him. Some of the more religiously devout people he knew might have been disturbed by their display, as their words were marred with emotion; some men even had their eyes rolled into the back of their heads with the weight of the ceremony, hands clasped together in prayer. But the gravitas of this _stomp dance_ , the reverence of the dancers, was bewitching to him.

Soon the rest of the adults had joined the ceremony, forming a concentric circle around the first. They were followed by the youth and children and then, upon Hachi's insistence, the visitors.

Emily was so moved that she attempted to sound out the words to the chant, only to stumble over the complex multi-syllabic words. So she settled on humming along, looking down at the shuffling feet of the people in front of her.

Hidden in the shadows of a nearby hut, the Chief's wife had her pinned under her scrutinizing gaze. With every lap around the fire, Emily was taken aback to find her eyes still on her.

To either side of her, two small children beamed at her in wonder. It was quite possible they had never seen a person who looked and dressed as she did. She smiled at them and took their hands, holding on to them until the chanting finally stopped and they scurried back to their mothers. Slowly the concentric circles unraveled, the natives returning to their seats.

Chief Yahola stepped aside and another man in his company took his place at the head of the inner circle. He then began to chant, and the cycle began anew. Just as her companions stood to join the procession a second time, Emily slipped away and joined the other woman away from prying eyes.

She immediately turned and began to walk away. Captain Grace followed as far as the Chief's home, hesitating briefly before stepping in after her.

The interior was much larger than it appeared on the outside. Various ceremonial instruments were scattered about, and a patchwork of colorful woven blankets traversed the space. Together they sat in the center of the room facing one another.

Emily pointed to herself and said her name out loud, hoping that the other woman would pick up on it and offer something by which she could be called. But she wasn't looking as she moved a nearby blanket aside, exposing the dirt underneath.

Silently she began to draw with her finger, forming a stick figure of a girl with a short skirt and elaborate updo. A rectangle followed, then a door and two smaller boxes filled in with a cross. She pointed to this symbol- _house_ -and then to the first.

"Hachi?" Emily wondered aloud, and her companion nodded vigorously. Another stick figure joined the girl, a man with breeches and a round hat.

Clearly she was trying to tell Emily something about Hachi and a man from Charles Town. It could be Henry, or perhaps someone else. Quickly she reached over and drew the symbol of the heart above them, possibly indicating there was a love affair between them. Her friend's brows furrowed in confusion.

 _Of course._ She had never seen that symbol before. Emily gave herself a hug, pursed her lips together as if to kiss, and smiled blissfully. The woman snapped her fingers and nodded.

She quickly erased Hachi's body and replaced it with a European style dress similar to the one Emily presently wore. Then she pointed between the two figures, silently bidding her to understand.

"She became influenced by the English? Perhaps she wanted to stay and not return?"

The native woman rose up on her haunches and pressed her finger to her lips. Footsteps were quickly approaching. She seized Emily's hands and helped her to her feet. Together they exited the hut as quickly as they came.

-0-

"Are you sure this is the correct house?" Murdoch asked skeptically, sizing up the white A-frame at the end of Charles Town's main thoroughfare.

"It's the second grandest home in town, the law offices notwithstanding," Julia remarked. "Besides, I do not think the men at the tavern would have led us astray."

He stiffened at the reminder. Julia had used her feminine wiles to get information out of the townsfolk, striding into the rowdiest establishment in town and plopping down next to some rather rough looking grifters. He didn't blame them for immediately yielding to her questions, her beauty and melodious laughter reaching he and George as they waited near the door. There had been an inexplicable twinge of jealousy there, completely unjustified; it wasn't as if they were married or courting. _Or were they?_

"Sir, are you going to knock?" George's plaintive question knocked him out of his reverie. The three of them stood on the wrap-around porch, but it was he who stood in front of the door, fist inches from the door.

Making a gruff sound of indignation, he did just that and waited. There was a precipitous silence, and then the sound of heeled shoes on a wooden floor. The netted screen came open, then the door, and they were soon introduced to Ruby Meyers, _née_ Rosevear.

Indeed she was much younger than William had anticipated, perhaps a half decade older than George, with lush brown curls tied back from her delicate face. She did not wear the traditional black of ladies mourning the death of their husbands, but a painstakingly beaded peach gown and even a crinoline so wide she had to stand sideways to fit into the hall. She wore jewels around her neck and dangling from her ears, having applied enough rouge to her cheeks and kohl to her eyes to where she appeared borderline garish. But she was still pretty enough to strike palpitations into the hearts of men; beside him, George removed his hat.

"Mrs. Meyers, I am Sir William Murdoch of the Bridgetown Constabulary. Allow me to introduce Dr. Julia Ogden and George Crabtree. We are here to ask you a few questions about your husband's death," he began, curiously watching her expression grow more giddy as he spoke, until she barely heard his final sentence.

"I've heard of you. My father has business of the Isle of Wight, Yarmouth namely, and always brought back bulletins and newspaper clippings of your keen detective work. It's a pleasure, _a real honor_ , to finally meet you in person," she trailed off, staring directly at him with such scrutiny that it was a little uncomfortable. Finally Julia cleared her throat. "Oh, dear! Where are my manners? Come in, please!"

The interior of the Meyers home could only be described as opulent, with gilded mirrors and fine portraits hanging from every wall. More than a handful were of the couple themselves; George began to wonder just how much free time they had to sit for the likenesses to be taken. He had a similar reaction to the Hacienda de la Vega and had ultimately come out with no explanation. Seeing as the ways of the idle rich were beyond him, he resolved to push that thought out of his mind.

The parlor lay to the immediate left of them. Ruby ushered them in, and excused herself to go make tea.

William took stock of the luxurious furnishings, velvet upholstered loveseats and quilted chaise lounge. The walls were painted a rich burgundy, offsetting the light streaming through the pane glass windows. Quietly Julia went to sit on the loveseat and he joined her, notebook open in his lap.

Faint sounds of struggle came from the kitchen, followed by a yip and the sizzle of boiling water. George was about to spring to her aid when Ruby appeared in the doorway, four cups of tea balanced on a silver platter. She set it on a low table in the center of the room and encouraged her guests to partake, then lowered herself with some difficulty into a reclining position on the chaise.

Julia was the first to take a sip. She had to admit that although there was room to be desired in the domestic skills department, Mrs. Meyers made a fantastic cup of tea and was every inch the perfect hostess.

"Allow us to express our condolences for your loss," William said.

She sighed and rolled over, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead in a mock swoon. "It's just been so terribly _trying_ these past two months, Sir Murdoch. Imagine, not even two years married and already a widow."

Although she wanted to feel bad for the young woman, the way she was batting her eyelashes at William only made Julia seethe with jealousy. She shifted in her seat to move closer to him, hoping to convey some modicum of ownership. "We understand that Sir Jarvis is convinced that Henry Higgins killed your husband."

"I don't see how. He was a lovely gentleman, certainly, and practically _fawning_ over me, but he is quite incapable of murder. I daresay I shall miss his company." She expressed her misgivings with undue dramatics, as seemed to be her wont.

A twinge of nervousness was stirred up in William's gut. Only three days to save Henry's life. "Do you believe he intended to stray you towards adultery?"

She puffed out her cheeks in contemplation. "Perhaps eventually. He was so devoted to his little career as a clerk, and it would make for a quite passionate love affair, the stuff of _novels_. He and Sir Jarvis once brought flowers to congratulate Terrence on another successful business deal, but when they came to the door, Henry was holding the vase and I just _knew_ he meant them to be for me. It is the little things women pick up on, sir."

"Did he ever make any inappropriate advances towards you?"

"No, I daresay he did not. I could tell he wanted to, though." She actually giggled, casting a mischievous glance at the only other woman in the room.

"So you don't believe him to be your husband's murderer?" George was standing in the corner next to a massive grandfather clock, silently wondering how something like that made it on the journey overseas without casualty.

Suddenly she sat up, hands clasped in her lap. "I do not. My husband was a wealthy man, and he had many enemies incurred from years in business. Perhaps you should look into his associates."

That certainly checked out. There was a period of silence wherein William scribbled away, only to hide the paper in his vest pocket when Ruby craned her neck to look.

"We thank you for your candor, Mrs. Meyers. If you don't mind me asking, what happened to your husband's worldly fortune?"

She began to explain that he had left everything to his wife, including an expansive catalogue of contacts. Ruby had continued to operate his businesses without the assistance of a man, even firing the hired help, determined for once in her life to become her own woman. This Julia found admirable, but her eyes strayed to the marble bust of King Charles on the mantle above the fireplace, and the poker leaning against the wall to one side.

"I take it you are quite enjoying your freedom," George surmised, setting his empty china cup onto the table. On the way he looked to Sir Murdoch, knowing he had the same thought: _What if Ruby had seduced Henry, getting him close enough in order to frame him, and then murdered her husband for her inheritance?_

Ruby nodded. "Indeed I am. I'm looking into purchasing more land out west, then selling it at a pretty penny to the next crop of unfortunates off the boat. It is what Terrence would have wanted."

Glancing at the clock, Murdoch discovered that some time had passed and it was well into the afternoon. He stood. "Madam, I am afraid we really must be on our way."

"So soon?" She exclaimed, following them out to the door. "I suppose you'll tell me if you found the true killer, won't you? Oh, how _exciting_! It's an honor to finally meet you, Sir Murdoch, simply an honor." And then she proceeded to shake his hand for perhaps longer than appropriate.

"Absolutely, Mrs. Meyers. If you'll excuse us." Julia spoke for him, pulling the other two men out the door after her. They had much to discuss.

 _(to be continued)_


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Big plot points are revealed here! Be forwarned that Julia's description of the physician's office may not be for the faint of heart, or those with a weak stomach. Sorry for the wicked cliffhanger, by the way!

I'll address Henry's alibi in the next chapter introduction, because I don't want to spoil anything. By the way, I know Peter Keleghan is in his fifties, but this AU generally scales the characters' ages down by ten years to reckon with the shorter life span of the time.

Next time: A revelation from one of Hachi's villagers, and a shocking discovery in the Meyers home.

 **Mistress of Discord**

 **Chapter Six**

Night had completely set upon Charles Town when the trio returned to the law offices of James, James, Jarvis and James. Minds racing, they were disinclined to speak until their feet naturally lead them to where they had began the day. They lingered in the road for an indeterminate amount of time. The only noise came from the tavern the next street over; the lanterns in the windows of the surrounding buildings were all extinguished except a notable few, giving them the notion that they were the last living souls in all the world.

"Something isn't quite adding up, sir," George finally said what they were all thinking. "If Meyers was shot in his family home as reported, certainly Ruby and Hachi would have heard the gunshot. Because the building is on the corner, its windows offer clear vantage points in all directions. Even if they stumbled to get their wits about them at first, they certainly would have seen the intruder leave."

"My question is that if the natives were offended by the attempted purchase of their ancestral land, would they go after not only Meyers, but also his closest associates, perhaps his wife?" Julia wondered aloud, referring to their previous theory. It had been the closest they had to any sort of presumption, before they had been somewhat enlightened by Ruby.

William shook his head. "It seems to me that Mrs. Meyers and Hachi were good friends. With a personal connection to the household, namely that his sister still lived there, it is doubtful that Yahola would have retaliated against the English for the death of his brother in that way."

"If he did in fact die of a sickness and _not_ of murder, for his reluctance to make a deal..."

"Right you are, George. Perhaps we ought to further inquire into the relationship between Mrs. Meyers and Mr. Higgins. There may have been elements of jealousy that spiralled out of control, just not between the anticipated parties."

"I would like to see the body," Julia proclaimed out of nowhere, to the surprise of the other two men. It was quite likely they still harbored the mental image of her tending to Luisa de la Vega, battered and decayed beyond recognition. Then, to dispel any of their unease: "If it is still viable."

"If there is foul play involved with Sir Jarvis and his associates- _and even if there is not_ -I doubt this is a favor we could ask of him," William said regretfully. There were a great deal of variables in this case, too many for them to narrow down a single suspect with a plausible motive.

She took this in quietly, her contemplative expression barely visible in the shadows. "Just leave it to me."

"As you wish," he answered, and came short of grasping the doorknob. _Which was worse: trying a man's patience, or sneaking around behind his back?_

A consensus was soon reached, or rather decided for them, as Julia took leave of them to crouch around the side of the building.

George and William entered and were received by Sir Jarvis immediately. The older man was sitting in the desk previously occupied by Henry in a professional context, balancing a candle holder on his knee whilst apparently deep in thought. He wore a plush robe over his nightclothes, a cap stretched across his sparse gray hair.

"Gentlemen." He stood with practiced ease, taking only a fraction of a second to regain his composure. "How may I help you?"

"We would like to see the autopsy report for the deceased," Murdoch prompted, attempting to echo his town. In the light of the candle's wick, Sir Jarvis looked tremendously older than his years. He also appeared... _a bit familiar._

"Ah, but of course." He made quick tracks to his office and opened the door. Looking to his left and his right, he passed the candle holder into George's hand rather than make the three step excursion to set it down upon the desk. "I suppose you have no leads thus far?"

The young man was about to speak, but William cut him off. "Unfortunately, we do not."

Jarvis finally managed to fish the proper file from his cabinet, clucking his tongue in reproach. "I do hope you choose the side of logic, and not the fanciful musings of a widow."

By the time he had finished speaking, William had a firm grasp on the parchment. They stood motionless for a brief moment, then he yanked it out of his hands.

"Mrs. Meyers was just here for an appointment to finalize a land purchase. She had made the wise decision to follow her husband's wishes and purchase the parcel of land reaching from the edge of town to beyond the native territory. Please understand that she has loose lips, and not much in the way of the entertainment these days. Anything you speak with her about is sure to be sensationalized," Jarvis ground out in a manner that suggested he was completely devoid of emotion, yet keenly enjoying being in control.

Rather than respond, William glanced down to the report and desperately tried to hold back the red rising to his cheeks.

 _TERRENCE MEYERS, AGED FORTY-SEVEN. ENGLISH MALE, STOCKY BUILD. DECEASED MIDNIGHT TO ONE OF THE CLOCK 24 MAY 1672. DISCOVERED TWO AND A HALF OF THE CLOCK. PRESENTING WITH ONE BULLET WOUND TO MIDDLE CHEST. BROKE SKIN AND PERFORATED STOMACH. CAUSE OF EXPIRATION LOSS OF BLOOD AND VITAL HUMORS. DEATH WITHIN THE HOUR ON INJURY. HELD IN CHARLES TOWN MORTUARY UNTIL CLOSE OF CASE AND DEATH OF SUSPECT._

"And I suppose you would also like to speak to the witness," Jarvis cut in.

"That would be wonderful," George said plaintively, his voice barely audible.

"Help yourselves." And then the lawyer began his ever so stately procession into the foyer and up the staircase, leaving them quite alone in his office.

-0-

Julia met up with them outside, listening carefully as William relayed all he had read and heard. In the far reaches of her mind, she recalling seeing the town mortuary on their previous day's excursion, and resolved to pay it a visit.

"I would prefer to accompany you," the cabin boy offered, for the idea of the good doctor venturing into a cold room full of dead bodies was unfathomable to him, let alone by herself.

She refused this offer firmly but kindly, although her lips were pressed in a thin line and her hands were faintly shaking. "I am afraid this is something I must do alone, George."

"Be careful, Julia." Try as he might, William could not hide the emotion in his voice.

A moment passed between them in which both knew there was more to be said, but neither knew where to begin. At last she turned and stalked away, slipping one pistol out of her waistband and into her hand.

-0-

The mortuary was housed in a whitewashed building some distance from the docks. A sign over the door indicated that it also functioned as a physician's office. Julia found some humor in this, for her practice functioned similarly. Though the Bridgetown Constabulary was much better protected, considering all she had to do to gain entrance was to hike up her skirts, clamber atop a barrel, and slide in through the open window.

With the adrenaline pounding through her veins, Julia almost jumped off the sill. Thankfully she caught herself at the last minute, for the tub below her was filled with used tools and bodily fluids.

 _These primitive doctors,_ she thought, _have they no respect for their craft?_

Tilting her body, her feet touched the ground just to one side of it. The Charles Town doctor certainly had much more room than she, with multiple body slabs and a veritable mountain of instruments. Because she'd long since practiced sterilizing in order to prevent the spread of disease, Julia felt the irrational urge to start cleaning up, if nothing else to prevent the people of the town from an outbreak they would no doubt blame on humors, and then on acts of God or vice of the sick. _Vice_ , of all things!

In the far corner of the room, she found a square of wood paneling covering a hole in the dirt. Lifting it to one side, Julia uncovered a vertical chute that led almost straight down. It was quite common to store bodies below ground, as the cooler air kept the deceased from rotting too quickly. The space below her was pitch black, so she went to light a lantern and arm herself with one of the few knives that appeared clean.

She stood at the gaping mouth of the cellar for some time, hand clutched to her heart, bidding it to beat more slowly. Julia wasn't superstitious, but she had no way of knowing what awaited her below ground.

Suddenly she was seized by a surge of confidence. _She had run away from home at fifteen, commanded a privateering vessel, practiced medicine in the face of constant intimidation!_ It was rather silly to dally whenever she knew she could accomplish this.

Before she could second guess herself further, Julia turned and descended into the cellar, a rickety ladder the only barrier between her and certain death. At last her boots hit the packed dirt of the floor. She turned to behold a half dozen unfortunates laid supine, some wrapped in nothing but blankets and in various stages of decomposition.

Julia had never been at unease around the dead, but the threat of being caught was certainly getting to her. Several of the deceased were female, so that certainly limited her options. There were two middle aged men; one with the roughened hands of a laborer, and other with the manicured nails of a man of means.

Terrence Meyers was a dignified looking gentleman even in death, though his mouth was open and tongue lolling out with the noxious gas escaping from his gut. She reached forward and gently closed his lips, then turned his head away from her.

His flesh was already gray and beginning to turn a necrotizing black. If they didn't bury him soon, the stench in the cellar would be overpowering.

Gently pulling the blanket covering his torso downward, she confirmed the cause of death. The bullet hole in his stomach had only grown and become more ragged, exposing the withering state of his innards. The entry did not appear to be completely straight, as if he had been shot by the intruder straight on, but was slanted and at an oblique angle, almost as if the gunman had been standing above and to one side of him.

From her limited knowledge of the building, she considered places in the Meyers home where this could occur. Certainly if the murderer was standing at the second floor window and Terrence had been on the path below, but that wouldn't have made much sense. In her mind's eye, she entered through the foyer and recalled the parlor to the right, the kitchen to the left, and straight ahead…

 _The staircase!_ She quickly recovered the deceased's modesty and stepped back, deep in thought. It was at least twenty degrees cooler below ground, and gooseflesh was starting to erupt on her skin.

If the gunman had fired from the second floor, certainly Hachi or Rebecca would have heard it and come running. The same principle applied to the staircase, blowing a huge cannonball hole through their stories of that night, unless there was another position the gunman could have stood to shoot Meyers. But there was only one way to find that out.

Distantly, she heard the cellar door slam shut. Julia almost jumped out of her skin, reaching for her pistol. _Was she trapped in a tiny room with a mound of dead bodies, who were only just beginning to feel more and more alive?_

She charged up the ladder holding the lantern and gun, not realizing in her haste that she had left the knife on the morgue slab by Meyers. Not allowing herself to hesitate at the top, Julia pushed back the hatch and beheld an empty mortuary.

 _It was the wind,_ she told herself, _simply the wind._ Quietly, she extinguished the lantern and replaced the wooden plank. Because she couldn't exit the same way she came in, Julia exited through the back door, testing the knob to make sure it was still locked behind her.

The stars shone exceptionally brilliantly that night, giving light to her feet as they hurried along the ground. She had one more stop to make before turning in for the night.

-0-

Henry was sleeping fitfully in the dirt of his cell when they entered and instinctively flinched away from an anticipated blow when he heard his name. George sank to his haunches to take his forearm through the bars, the candle holder forgotten on the ground.

"She was just here. You missed her. The woman is _crazy_. Said you had come to see her trying to figure out who killed her husband, that she was very sorry I had to die but that just meant we could be together in the next life," Henry babbled, yanking his fingers through his overgrown hair with his free hand. "Sir, it is nighttime, and the next time I see the sun, I only have two days to live. The time I've spent in here has felt like an eternity. Some days I thought the execution would never come. But it's right around the corner, and there is so much left I have not yet gotten to do. I never got my own ship. George, we never sailed 'round the Horn of Africa, and we have never seen Plymouth Colony-"

William let him talk for as long as he saw fit, until he grew weakened by the weight of deeds undone and trailed off, still clutching his friend's arm.

"We went to see her, but it seems we could not anticipate the outcome of such an act. Please, Henry, if you can, we want you to remember anything else you possibly can about the relationship between Mrs. Meyers and Hachi," Murdoch encouraged.

"It's no secret they were friends. Very close, almost like sisters, although they carried on like children."

He took careful note of this. "And Hachi? Did she have any romantic interests?"

A moment passed where Henry remained deep in thought. Then he huffed with a sudden realization. "Actually, she seemed awfully sweet on Roger James, that young fellow at the law firm. I often saw them around one another, though he claimed to just be showing her the ways of the English. I have no doubt of that," he recalled with a touch of innuendo.

This surely would have been disapproved of by her brothers, and was worth consideration. However, because Master James had little contact with the family that wasn't directly supervised by Sir Jarvis, he decided to lay it aside for the moment. "Did you see him the night of the murder?"

"Yes, in fact I did. He was there along with Jarvis when the poor soul was carted out of his house."

Murdoch instantly stopped writing. "You saw Meyers being brought out by the coroner?"

"Well, _yes_ , indirectly in passing as I was on my way home-"

"Earlier you testified you took a walk around midnight and were soon back on the ship."

Slowly, imperceptibly, George's grasp on his arm tightened. His eyebrows knit together in disbelief. "Henry-"

"I'll ask you once more. Where were you at the time of the murder?" William's voice was noticeably louder and more forceful, his heartbeat a dull thud in his ears.

Henry realized that he had at last talked himself into a corner. His gaze flashed between his dearest friend and the man who resembled everything he wanted professionally, back and forth, before the tension in his body relaxed and he admitted, at last, to the inorexable truth. "After leaving the _Arcadia_ , I proceeded to the inn where I entertained the company of a lady friend."

"Ruby Meyers?"

"No!" He cried passionately. When he spoke again, it was in tones just a bit above a whisper. "It was Rebecca of Captain Grace's crew."

George's grip went slack at this revelation. Somewhere deep down, however, he knew better than to be surprised by this. The two had a special connection from the beginning; he keenly remembered Henry comforting the former slave as she recalled the death of her lover and daughter, with immense tenderness unbecoming of the acquaintance designation.

"So you used the inn to house your secret rendezvous. How many times has this happened?" William asked, clandestinely relieved that Henry's name could still be cleared.

"Ten times, give or take. None since the death of Meyers," he explained, pressing his forehead against the bars and closing his eyes.

"Captain Grace did mention that Rebecca received a letter from you about your recent employment, and that partially motivated their travels north."

A bittersweet smile ghosted across his lips. "Those weren't the only letters she received. The last time I was in her company aboard the ship, she was keeping our correspondences in a case underneath her bunk. I've only just learned to write, sir, so I could not as well explain my love for her as I could in my mind. But I tried, and she wrote back, and we could not stop. Really, I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone found out."

-0-

William and George had long since departed the cells when Julia traversed the streets by night, her collar turned up to the wind. She really ought to return to the _Temperance_ before they started to worry, but she had a few more errands to attend to.

The Meyers household was mercifully dark and morbidly silent. The rational part of her mind told her not to proceed with this train of thought, as she could be thrown in jail and derail the entire case. It told her to seek William's help, no matter how much time it took.

But some things couldn't wait until morning.

Standing on the porch, it occurred to her that she hadn't thought about how to get in. Certainly she could not break open one of the glass windows without being noticed, and she possessed nothing to pick the lock.

Acting on a whim, she teased the doorknob and felt it turn. Taking a deep breath to steel her nerves, she leaned forward and opened the front door.

 _(to be continued)_


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: This chapter is really short, but for good reason. We're building up to the big reveal in the next chapter!

To touch on Henry's alibi from the last chapter...I may be the only one on this, but I can really see Henry and Rebecca together even though they've had very limited interaction in canon. This started with the little story _Letters from London_ , where I wrote Rebecca before her first episode even aired. (I'm generally half a season behind yall Canadians because I live in America. The first episode of season 10 just premiered here!) Then the couple was featured in my Common Life AU series, and there was no stopping it from there. Plus, some sort of tension was implied in _Master of Tides_. What was a girl to do?

Next time: Unexpected visitors, and a third fatality. Less than thirty-six hours to save Henry's life!

 **Mistress of Discord**

 **Chapter Seven**

That night the three of them slept under the stars on woven mats before the smoldering embers of the day's fire. Hachi had offered them blankets; only Emily refused. She was growing increasingly suspicious of the girl by the minute.

"Perhaps she thought that with her older brother out of the way, she could run off with that Roger James fellow right under Chief Yahola's nose," Brax had suggested as they sat with their heads bent together.

Margaret leaned out the circle to make sure no one was listening in, but the camp was eerily silent, with not a soul in sight. "Where would they go, Thomas? Even if no one in Charles Town caught on to their scheme, Sir Murdoch certainly would. Those hoity-toity lawyer types can't survive on the homestead and you know it."

The seaman huffed and shook his head, having exhausted every motive he could think of. Once the stomp dance ritual had concluded and the villagers had gone to bed, they had spent several hours discussing what must be done, and had not come to any sort of conclusion. Emily, though she had spoken infrequently since explaining what the Chief's wife had told her, was in favor of remaining in the camp to fish for more leads. Margaret was adamant that they return to town to seek the counsel of his former charge. Himself, he wasn't sure what to think.

"How is this linked to Terrence Meyers' death? Do you suppose she killed her brother, he caught wind of it and threatened to expose her, and then she killed him too?" Margaret pressed.

Captain Grace wrapped her arms around her middle, for sitting cross-legged was pressing her insides in all sorts of uncomfortable ways. Slightly breathlessly, she said, "I do not see why that would benefit him to tell everyone about her relationships with Mr. James; Meyers needed Hachi on his side in order to buy more of her people's territory."

There was a poignant moment of silence, then Brax threw his hands up in the air. "It doesn't make sense!"

"Not a bit of it," Margaret agreed, seizing his arm and squeezing.

Soon they both saw what she had witnessed. An elderly man, hunched over with age and tremendous knowledge, had exited his hut and was hobbling towards them. He grasped a gnarled cane in one hand, bearing down on it with each step. His clothing was simple, a undecorated pair of deerskin breeches and a robe that was much too large for his stature. From his scalp grew an impossibly long shock of white hair, white had been plaited and interwoven with beads and ribbons by a delicate hand. Wrinkles lay in deep folds across his exposed skin; his mouth was placed in what seemed to be a permanent frown. But for his lack of speed, he moved with purpose and dignity, coming to stop right in front of them.

She sincerely doubted he spoke English, but Emily was determined to try. "Hello, sir," she began, watching him rummage around in the pockets of his robe. He produced a handful of herbs and a canteen of sorts. It was irregularly shaped, blood red in color with a slightly pointed end. Through the opening, he fed the herbs, and began to shake it gently. Once he was satisfied it was thoroughly mixed, he passed it into her hands and made a motion of lifting the canteen to his lips.

Emily cautiously obeyed, testing the liquid on her lips first. It was bitter, but fragrant, and she took another sip. The man smiled, gesturing towards her abdomen.

As she returned the makeshift flask, it occurred to her that this must be the village healer. He certainly looked wise beyond any number of years. His presence was comforting and unimposing, like a well-meaning grandfather.

He studied them for a moment in silence, then turned and began to shuffle off in the opposite direction. The trio sat there for a beat, looking between each other and trying to decide if he meant for them to follow him. At last, when he was just before the final circle of huts, he turned and gestured with his cane held aloft.

They stood and clambered after him, following the distance of the horizon to the south along the backbone of the valley. Margaret was beginning to suspect that they were just accompanying a lonely old man on his nightly walk- _and was about to say as much_ -when the ground steeply sloped upward and they found themselves laid bare to the stars above.

Before them lay about a dozen mounds in the earth with steep sides and flat tops. Here the grass grew particularly long, whispering as the wind whipped between the stalks. The man seemed to know where he was going, though he did stop to bow curtly at each them. Eventually they came to a mound where the grass grew only sparsely, indicating it was very recently formed. A heavy stone had been rolled across the makeshift entrance.

The healer stopped at once and with great effort lowered himself upon the ground. They quickly joined him, forming a circle. He did not make eye contact with them for some time, his head bowed and eyes closed.

A shockingly cool breeze whipped past them, setting each of them to chills. It was then Emily finally understood they were sitting amidst a burial ground; she felt eyes on her from all sides.

Brax had the same queer sort of sinking feeling he got when the _Arcadia_ was about to sail into rough waters or run afoul of the local port authority. He couldn't just let it overtake him. With a sudden burst of adrenaline he stood and went over to the stone. What they hadn't been able to see in the near darkness were symbols carved in the surface of it, ancient runes no doubt meant to serve some great significance.

Without thinking he reached out to them, only to have his hand slapped away. He turned to find the old man standing directly at his side, and the two women still sitting down, completely agape.

Margaret wasn't even sure she'd even seen him move. One second he was at her side and the next he was standing by Thomas, ready to knock some sense into him. A sharp realization cut through her surprise: "It's the Chief!"

 _So much for Julia examining the body,_ Emily thought wistfully, _Chitto is probably buried behind ten feet of solid earth._

"How did he die?" Brax asked, imploring the elderly man to understand and give a serviceable answer. The fate of their case depended on it.

He seemed confused, so he repeated the question several times, even miming clutching his heart and losing consciousness. Nodding, he turned away from Brax towards the women.

Before he could stop him, the healer raised his cane above his head and brought it down, stopping a fraction of an inch from Emily's temple. To her credit, she did not even flinch, though the slightest movement would have meant certain death. She was a world away.

 _Horses. Horses and their riders, hunched forward in exertion, riding at full pelt towards the west. They would not think of stopping until they met their target face to face._

-0-

The interior of the Meyers home was quiet and blessedly dark. Julia stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind her ever so gently.

The platter and teacups from the afternoon were still on the table in the sitting room, along with a discarded handkerchief and a few ledgers. On a whim she opened one and flipped through a few pages, dismayed to find it only contained rows and rows of numbers, of messy initials and haphazardly drawn property maps. She doubted it would contain anything relevant to the case.

Slowly she drew open the curtains, exposing the room to the moonlight. Nothing seemed particularly notable or out of place; Julia was starting to regret having come.

The mantle was a thick wooden slab over the open hearth, laden with small portraits and other knick knacks. A bust of King Charles sat on the edge, keeping silent vigil over his domain. Picking it up and flipping it over, Julia discovered a substantial chip on one corner of the base. It was the kind of scar that could only be made by blunt impact, not by hitting the floor.

She stepped aside and pulled up the rug, uncovering the wooden panels underneath. Her eyes were scarcely adjusted to the dark, but there was no mistaking the sight of two large, irregular stains, each about the size of a dinner plate.

Julia placed one foot in the center of the first and lunged forward, only to find that she couldn't reach the other spot with her free foot. Certainly they were more than four feet apart, a greater distance than any man who had just been shot in the stomach could have moved.

Moving in the center of the room, she aimed her pointer finger like an imaginary gun, noticing that the second, more distant splatter carried the specific oblique pattern she was looking for.

The other blood stain was a bit of a conundrum. As she stepped over the balled up rug to inspect it once more, her skirts swept against the poker and it clattered to the floor.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Julia seized it to prevent it from making any further noise, waiting for any indication of movement from upstairs.

When none came, she reached out to return the two foot long metal pole to its position. However, her hands had wiped some of the soot off. The actual material seemed to be a substantial ceramic, white with gray veins.

 _Even the household tools of these blasted rich people are impractical,_ she groused silently. Julia wiped one end of the poker on her skirt; when she discovered nothing, she flipped it the opposite way and immediately laid eyes on a second, thinner layer underneath the ash.

The blood was dried and quite sparse, but was indeed there. She set down the poker and reached for the bust. Sure enough, upon second examination, the doctor could just barely make out that the color of the base and the head did not match.

She chipped the paint with her thumbnail, only to confirm her suspicions. Stepping back, she imagined someone standing with their back to the staircase, poker held aloft.

 _Whack_. The unwitting victim would fall, most likely against the sides of the fireplace, causing the mantle to shake and the bust to fall. _Crack_. That would have certainly been the end of him.

And yet Terrence Meyers had shown no signs of head injuries. She doubted another murder could have taken place in the community without them having heard about it. _Unless…_

 _Hachi and Yahola were living there. Yahola leaves. Chitto is never seen alive again. It all made sense._

There was only one more matter to attend to. Julia took painstaking care to rearrange everything just as she'd found it, down to the rug on the floor, and retreated to the staircase. She tested each step as she went, just in case one were to squeak and give up her presence to the sleeping woman above.

Halfway up, she found herself in the proper position. Standing bolt straight, she hefted her imaginary weapon, set her sights…

A door opened upstairs, sounding dangerously close. Julia bit back her gasp, making her way down to the foyer as fast as she could without making an obvious amount of noise. She all but threw open the door and stumbled out into the street, cursing her nerves for getting the best of her.

When Ruby came downstairs in her nightgown seconds later, all she found was a door halfway closed in the jamb and one of her husband's ledger books open on the _chaise_.

 _(to be continued)_


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: We're almost done! Here we find out just what about Sir Jarvis is so familiar to William, and in the process resolve a story that was told in chapter two of MOT.

Next time: Never forget to bring your sword to a gunfight.

 **Mistress of Discord**

 **Chapter Eight**

It was very near to dawn when Julia returned to the _Temperance_. William and George were sleeping fitfully in the ward room, all but jumping to their feet when she entered. Both had been mentally debating gathering a search party and going to look for her, though they knew well enough that she could take care of herself. As she swept into the room, she removed the pistols from her waistband, sinking them down onto the table with flourish. With a flick of the wrist, she indicated William to move aside on the chaise, then sat beside him. She closed her eyes and began to massage her temples, not speaking for some time.

When she did, it was to relay all she had seen in the Meyers home. The men listened with rapt attention, silently connecting the points of the case together in their minds.

"Consider this," William concluded once she had finished, "Hachi became a little too comfortable with the English, enough so that she wanted to remain in Charles Town permanently. Chief Chitto finds out and travels to confront her, only to come across Terrence Meyers. In a rage, knowing that he intends to purchase the tribal lands, he kills him, and then Hachi murders him in retaliation. Both feign ignorance, but Mrs. Meyers pursues her husband's pending acquisition with the help of Roger James and Sir Jarvis."

"What could be in it for them?" George wondered. Reaching underneath Emily's bunk, he retrieved her flask of rum from its hiding place and took a healthy swill.

"Love for the former, and a cut of the profits for the latter."

He grimaced, shaking his head. "Sir Jarvis doesn't seem too fond of the natives. He likely wouldn't take too kindly to one of his fellows having one as a lover."

Julia took the flask from his hands, drank to her content, and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Surely he would not. But with one of their own wed to the English, the natives would feel some sort of subjugation."

It followed that they would see their tribal leaders as having some preternatural wisdom beyond the common man, and allow the English to take advantage of them under the guise of protection. They were optimistic and trusting in all that they did, but almost to a fault. Though it was unfortunate, the fate of the natives was clear.

"Perhaps Mr. James meant to force Mrs. Meyers' hand. With her husband gone, her wealth is in a tenuous position. If Terrence's men were to rise against her, she would have no chance but to forfeit her assets," William said.

Beside him, Julia huffed in indignation. "She may have been born into a life of luxury, but any woman has the ability to defend herself and her property. I would wager to say they are fairly loyal to her as well."

"That would also imply that Hachi was willing to betray Mrs. Meyers. Henry said that they were the closest of friends." George stood and began to pace the length of the room, seemingly deep in thought. "This certainly cannot be true, for Ruby intends to force the natives off their land. Clearly they do not hold each other in very high regard."

William pondered this. He couldn't help but wonder for the thousandth time how the away party was doing, if they were safe and if they had gathered any useful information. It was quite possible that the true motives of the suspects were perfectly clear to them, and his party in town was helplessly dancing around it all. "Suppose the Chief and Mr. Meyers were killed around the same time, and both women knew of it. They most likely committed the act themselves. Then they made a pact of secrecy, both of which are exploiting to their own personal gain. It is doubtful we could speak to Meyers' men about his death, but Roger James remains a distinct possibility."

"He lives in the same home as Sir Jarvis," George reminded him, as if he didn't already know. "However we go about this, he is sure to find out."

Not for the first time in the past few days, William found himself biting back his anger. He was sure now that Sir Jarvis knew that Henry was innocent, but was conveniently choosing to ignore the facts for his own benefit. _Was that what it was? A simple matter of pride?_

He stood and holstered one of Julia's weapons in his own belt, much to her surprise. "I am going to pay the law firm another visit, and I suggest that you both come with me."

-0-

By the time they returned to town, fully informed and bursting with newfound confidence, it was mid-morning. Charles Town's gentry were going about their daily routines, not paying the least bit attention to three slightly scruffy-looking privateers pounding on the front door of the law offices of James, James, Jarvis and James. Indeed, the door was locked and the curtains were drawn to obscure their view of the lobby. When Sir Jarvis did answer after several minutes, he was immaculately coiffed and poised as always.

"May I help you, Sir Murdoch?" He inquired, though his eyes were on Julia, pinning her down under his scrutinizing gaze.

George deliberately stepped in front of her, feeling unsettled on her behalf. "We want to speak to Roger James."

He scoffed, visibly amused that the deckhand would venture to make demands of someone of his stature. "I regret that I have not seen the man since last night. He left after the evening meal, and has not yet returned."

Either this was a normal behavior for Mr. James, or his boss did not care for potential threats to his safety. William found both possibilities to be concerning.

"What are some places in town he is known to frequent?"

-0-

Hours later, Julia was leading the way up the quay, having thoroughly searched every general store and inn in Charles Town. The fact that no one had seen the man in over twelve hours was concerning enough-those who would answer their questions seemed to consciously avoid eye contact, or refuse his acquaintance when it was plainly obvious they were lying. Most of these individuals were women, who promptly left their brooms on the stoop and scurried inside when their backs were turned. As they continued their search into the taverns, it became apparent that their regular clientele-the dock workers and common laborers-were nowhere to be found. More and more windows were shuttered; children were ushered inside. It was as if the population of the town was collectively holding its breath.

At last the three of them reached the stables where their own had rented horses for their journey across the plains. It was the final communal space they could think of where Mr. James might be, especially if he were planning to go on the run.

William entered the makeshift barn first, expecting to meet an attendant, who was absent. Also missing were a great deal of the animals, save for a few older or feeble horses at the end of the rows.

The stalls were open to the walkway, so they split up, moving aside bridles and riding blankets to expose any hiding spaces. It was quick work, and they soon approached the far end of the barn, where a dappled mare was stomping her hooves, whinnying through her teeth.

Julia stepped up and stroked her muzzle, whispering soothing words to the animal. It tossed its head to one side and the other, altogether ignoring her attempts to calm it. Finally she gave up and lead the horse out of the stall, watching as its height decreased by almost a foot as it stepped into the walkway.

She parted the straw it had been standing on, hands freezing in midair.

Noticing her hesitance, William joined her, catching a glimpse of the rough suit fabric sticking out among the yellowish hay. Together they exposed the body, rolling it over to discover the battered form of the young lawman.

"Good lord," George muttered reverently, sinking to his haunches behind him.

The cause of death was as plain as the nose on one's face; the fact that Roger James no longer possessed one was another matter entirely. He'd seemingly been brought to his maker by a gunshot right between the eyes.

It was a gruesome sight, as his brains were discovered to be sprayed across the floor and up the wooden paneling behind where the horse had stood. With some effort, Julia and William lifted the body into a sitting position and covered it with a blanket.

"I will bet my worldly possessions that Ruby is behind this." George asserted at last, breaking the otherwise stunned silence.

The doctor shook her head. "I don't believe she would murder her friend's lover. Besides, a woman dressed like she does could not travel to this part of town without getting noticed. Unless-"

"They have gone to assert the land claim," William ground out, studying the empty rows of stalls. "My God, Terrence's men killed James and now they're going after Chief Yahola."

"We've got to warn the others," George implored them, distraught over the safety of his wife and their unborn child.

"We could not get there before them if we tried. They've got half a day's head start." Julia bent over and cleaned her hands of the poor unfortunate's brain matter on her skirt.

"We've got to do _something_. We can't just-"

"Jarvis," William said with visible emotion, hands clasped into fist. "He's behind all of this. He's the facilitator, the cause of Meyers' death. I swear to you, when I find him…"

Somewhere in the distance, a bell was ringing, indicating the end of the working day. Whatever spell had come over them dissipated in that instant; almost in unison, they turned and stalked out of the stables.

-0-

"My brother's death was most tragic," Chief Yahola told them over the midday meal, which was being held in his personal hut for privacy. His wife sat beside him, gaze purposefully trained away from Emily's. Overnight, a purplish bruise of dubious origin had appeared over her eye, and since then she had been reluctant to interact with their guests. "He had just left town two days prior to visit Hachi, and left me in charge. If I had known that was the last time I would see him alive…" He trailed off, passing the drinking gourd to his left.

Brax accepted it and took a long sip. "And how long was it before Hachi brought his body back to you?"

"No more than two days, as I said. She was returning to us on a surprise visit, and came upon his camp. He was shivering and drenched in sweat. It was fortunately she found him when she did, or else when he finally expired he would have been carried off by animals," he continued nonchalantly, not in the least bit phased by the gruesome description.

The longer they spent discussing the circumstances of Chief Chitto's death, the more discrepancies they discovered. Their stories were continually changing. Hachi had described his sickness as a stomach problem, and had testified that he'd died in the village before she even arrived. When prodded, Yahola could not remember any spread of such contagion. One of them was lying, and they were determined to figure out which it was.

"And when did you hear about Terrence Meyers' death?" Margaret asked.

"Less than a day later. We had not even buried my brother when the messenger arrived. Terrible news, really. I do wish I could be of more help to this investigation," he said with as much sincerity as he could muster.

Outside there was a sudden commotion, men shouting and hooves thrumming upon the ground. Without hesitation Chief Yahola stood and exited his home, followed shortly by the three of them. Hachi joined the small crowd of people that had gathered at the door.

They were greeted by more than a dozen Englishmen on horseback. Some of them were armed with pistols, others with clubs or maces. The women of the village had all but disappeared; out of the corner of her eye, Emily caught a glimpse of a mother cowering in the doorway of her hut, her children held tightly to her breast.

The native warriors had responded to the invasion, bows held at their sides. The men on horseback were woefully outnumbered, but didn't appear threatened. Something told them that they weren't there for an innocent visit.

"What is the meaning of this?" Chief Yahola demanded. "You are surely trespassing on our sacred grounds. Who is the leader?"

The one at the front of their procession slid out of his saddle and drew himself up to full height. He appeared to be what Margaret's dearly departed mother would refer to as a _career drunkard_ , swaggering, bearded, unwashed and thoroughly unapologetic. "We've come on orders of the Meyers estate. The lady has bought this land, and _you_ are now the ones trespassing. Evacuate at once or suffer the consequences."

To his credit, the chief didn't so much as flinch as the much taller man towered above him. "I should think not. Mrs. Meyers would _never_ -"

Two things happened at once. The man leveled his pistol and emptied a single round into the chest of the nearest warrior, who fell to his knees clutching his heart. His brothers reacted, but not fast enough for Chief Yahola to reach into his robe, remove Margaret's gifted weapon, and fire at the second closest Englishman.

As he'd acted impulsively, his aim was noticeably off. The shot barely grazed the man's arm. All around them, the natives were recoiling from the close proximity of the sound, visibly shocked. It was plain to see they had never considered any use for the guns besides hunting.

Before Emily could think, she had removed a knife from her belt and drew it back, only to feel Brax grasp her hand around the hilt.

The men's horses were still bucking and kicking when the man recognized them. "Captain Brackenreid, Captain Grace. I see your lot still hasn't discovered how to mind their own." Ignoring the crowding of warriors over their fallen brother, he remounted his horse. "I respect the rights of our kind, so we will return one day hence. If you aren't gone by then, we'll round you up and shoot you like the rest of them."

-0-

This time, William didn't wait for Sir Jarvis to answer the door. Leaving his companions to check in on Henry, he burst into the man's office on a burst of adrenaline. He sat reclined in his chair, fingers steepled before his mouth, and barely acknowledged his presence.

"I know it was you. I do not know how, but you caused Meyers' death when all along it's been you wanting to marry the woman. With Meyers gone, you could gain access to both his fortune and the natives' lands. That is what this is all about, all the visits and gifts with Henry going along so you could frame him in a crime of passion," William proclaimed, noticing how his expression didn't shift in the slightest.

"Those are quite the accusations, Sir Murdoch. I would think better of you than to make them. To be frank, I have neither caused the man's death nor committed any crime." Ever so leisurely, he closed the file on his desk and set it to one side.

"No, but you have taken advantage of the poor widow. Does she even know the details of the contract she signed?"

"Perhaps not," he admitted, standing and coming around the side of the desk. "But I would not advise you to judge me on moral grounds."

William studied him quizzically, wondering just what he might be referring to. And then at last he recognized him from a far distance time and place.

"You were there the night we sold out Cromwell." Murdoch's years at university in Cambridge were marred with unpleasant memories of having to hide his Catholic upbringing from reformist zealots, culminating in a solid month when the people's hero had advanced on the town and held it in siege. There was much debate among the students, but eventually they elected to send one of their own outside the city walls, on a do-or-die mission to inform the King's troops of their situation. It was an unpopular decision, especially among the townsfolk and several of the professors.

He remembered him now. The instructor of the senior certification course in law, who had left long before William could earn his letters. He'd hung back in the shadows as the young man manned their fortifications by night, instructed to shoot down any rebel that dared come close to their dormitory.

And he'd seen him fire his weapon once, twice, _countless times_ , each fallen man his conscience was to bear for many years to come.

Jarvis was nodding slowly. "I would advise you to tread carefully. Your friend has one day to live. Ask yourself if his life means more or less than all those that you thoughtlessly slaughtered. And then do tell your lady friend to be more careful next time."

Out of the drawer came a butcher knife the length of his forearm, which Jarvis jammed into the desktop with considerable force. He had no way to know, but it was the very same that Julia had used the night before in the town morgue.

"I have ears and eyes everywhere."

 _(to be continued)_


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Wow, even _I_ can't believe this chapter came out of me. I have the tendency to end the next to last chapter the same way, so here we're trying a variation on a familiar theme. I'm also experimenting with repetition as a prose device.

Please keep in mind that this AU pushes the limits of our characters, so everyone is a little bit OOC. I only mention this because I feel I may have taken a few wild liberties with characterization here. But I am proud of it for what it is.

Thank you all for your encouragement! One more to go.

Next time: The end, or just the beginning?

 **Mistress of Discord**

 **Chapter Nine**

Emily had seen a good many people die before her eyes, whether in her time aboard the _Temperance_ or her prior career as a gambler and petty thief, but the native warrior was different. The man seemed to die with dignity; Chief Yahola himself held him in his arms and spoke quietly to him in their language. He nodded slowly until the last bastions of his strength fell away, his head falling backward and body going slack. It was then that the weeping began.

The warriors were vocal about their grief, most of them openly sobbing and shouting their lamentations skyward. A woman approached then. Emily took her to be the deceased's wife, for the Chief allowed himself to be brushed aside as she all but collapsed on top of him, all the while murmuring prayers to their gods.

This continued for an indeterminate amount of time, during which Chief Yahola turned and stalked back into his home. A handmade bow came off of the wall, followed by a sling of arrows across his chest. As he turned back toward them, he met each of their eyes individually, and suddenly they knew what was about to transpire.

They found their horses still hitched to a post on the outskirts of the village; fortunately, the thugs hadn't been cruel enough to steal them. Brax had seized hold of one of the reins when Margaret suddenly pushed him aside.

Her fingers were working furiously at her hair, forming it into a rough braid. Once it was finished, she tucked it into the back of her coat and replaced her wide-brimmed hat. With a whoop of air leaving her lungs, she hoisted herself into riding position. "I've got to get there before them. I will ride a mile south and then straight on through the night."

"Margaret, don't be daft. You heard them; they said they would return in one day's time," Brax demanded of her in his usual manner, though his words were tinged with emotion.

Emily shook her head. "I should think not. They expect Yahola's warriors to pursue them all the way to town. There they'll finish them off. It shall come off looking like a native raid, and the townsfolk will not think to ask questions."

 _Of course she was right._ This plan was likely the original one conceived by Terrence Meyers, once the hostile takeover of their lands commenced. Their methods were brutish, but ultimately effective.

"Tell the lads to empty the armory," Brax eventually conceded. "I still think I ought to go with you."

"My love, Captain Grace is in no condition to ride and you know full well that I'm faster than you," she said. There was no way he could talk her out of it if he tried.

He huffed, his normally impassive expression marred with the knowledge that blood would soon be shed. "Very well. Be careful, and stop for no man."

She leaned over dangerously in the saddle to kiss him swiftly, then nudged her horse into forward motion.

"I never do."

-0-

Rebecca took leave of her sisters in arms at the time of night when all stood silent, just a touch before the dawn. All had been shocked to witness the return of Margaret, who is her haste to report had all but rode her steed up the gangplank. Soon Sir Murdoch had come topside. Unlike the rest of them, he wasn't rubbing the sleep from his eyes; this was the news they had been waiting on.

Soon the men of the _Arcadia_ had been alerted to the situation, and both ships were abuzz with activity. They were used to seafaring battles conducted at some distance, but each was capable of defending themselves in close quarters. Many of the women had knives or pistols stowed under their bunks that they hadn't gotten the opportunity to use since the Spanish.

With all the commotion, she stole the chance to sneak away, cloak held tightly around her irreverent of the cloying heat. Just like she had done countless times since the arrest, she made her way to the law offices, went around back to the shed, and let herself into the cells.

Henry hadn't been sleeping. He'd grown to expect her at this time of night. With some effort, he rose to his feet and embraced her through the bars. She tried and failed not to notice how frail he'd grown.

"Almost twenty four hours now," he whispered into her ear, holding on to the back of her dress for dear life.

She didn't respond, just turned her head and left a trail of kisses down his jawline. When that was done, Rebecca pulled back and looked him in the eyes, noticing that he was also very close to tears.

This was the man who had shot her former lover to protect a lawman who he'd only just met. This was the man who'd kept her sane as her world fell down around her a second time. _Her child was dead, her family was worlds away, and her former mistress was out to get her._ This was the man who had written to her first, immediately pouring his heart out, recounting his life up until this point and telling her that he'd missed her almost immediately. _Such poetic language for a cabin boy!-_ but she could not fault him for it. The words on the page seemed to tremble and breathe with his ever declaration, and she had felt something that had been long forgotten. Not since Mateo.

And now it was all about to be over, even before it began. If the true killer couldn't be found, she would soon see him hang. Once more, her heart would shatter, and she wasn't sure she could mend it again. But she didn't want to think about it. She didn't _want_ to wonder what would be left of her world if Henry wasn't in it.

So instead she asked, "Do you remember when we first met?"

He chuckled. He could not soon forget it. On a whim, he had followed her from the docks to a trade stand, where he'd come to her rescue as a merchant tried to take advantage of her lack of knowledge of the ports.

"I cannot believe you brushed me off."

"If I had known what I know _now_ …"

Henry suddenly looked away, all of the joviality disappearing from his features. When he returned to the moment, his every word was dredged with regret.

"I wish I had a thousand lifetimes to give to you, Rebecca. Believe me, I never meant for this to happen."

"Of course you didn't," she assured him, wiping the tears from his cheeks with her thumb. "Now tell me again how it was meant to be."

He smiled in spite of himself. "I would build you a cabin in the woods north of town, from the foundation to the furniture. And on the day I would take you out to see it, I would make you an honest woman."

Grief was tugging at her chest, threatening to steal her breath. It was all she ever wanted, and now it was soon to be taken away.

"And we would live off the land, in the company of each other. Soon we'd have a child, or several, and we would give them the best the world has to offer. And we'd be _happy_ -"

"No murders? No battles to fight?"

"Nothing of the sort," he promised, "It would be perfect. It would be everything. It would be _ours_. Oh, Rebecca-"

She silenced him, burying her face into the crook of his neck. And when her tears began to flow, he joined her, and they relished in each other's company.

They had so precious little of it left.

-0-

The next few hours were immensely stressful. Eventually it was decided that if this battle was really going to take place, they ought to do it as far away from town as possible so as to avoid civilian casualties. Their procession to the plains had led them right past the law offices of James, James, Jarvis and James, but no one had emerged to stop them.

Near the outskirts of town, the land crested and then sloped down sharply, creating an artificial bastion where they could see for a great distance out to the west. Without being prompted, the sharpshooters led by Margaret laid on their stomachs with their sights set on the horizon, their heads barely hidden over the tall grasses. Those without long range weapons, however, had to crouch behind them and try not to be seen. William was sure they made quite the spectacle from the opposite direction, but otherwise he paid no mind to it.

He was no battle strategist; that much was apparent. Julia removed several coins from her purse to serve as little characters, and they each took turns moving them around to anticipate every possible scenario. Her expertise, though expansive, was suited to sea battles where there were no obstacles for miles in any direction. Neither could seem to wrap their heads around the possibility of one of the hundreds of innocent souls meeting their untimely end due to what might be the most extravagant legal loophole scheme in recent history.

Try as he might, George couldn't mask his anxiety. He paced up and down the length of the line, his broadsword clanking against his leg with every step. William had heard the stories often enough to know that this was his prized possession, an engraven weapon worn by his father during the Irish Confederate Wars. It was a thick, unwieldy thing, entirely unsuited for close quarters at sea. On land, however, it was more than ideal, and George planned to put it to good use.

They had been in position for several hours before anyone approached. At first it was a tiny dot of black against an endlessly blue sky, then it grew larger and larger to reveal the form of a horse and its riders. Curiously, they were alone.

Margaret peered through her sights as her companions leveled their muzzles at the nearing form. Then she recognized the way the rider carried himself, the graying reddish hair and characteristic eye patch-

"Stand down!" She hissed, personally lowering the weapons of the two women lying beside her. A ripple effect of guns being drawn back spread to either ends of the line, followed by the archers easing their bowstrings into a relaxed position.

Once they were in shouting distance, she realized that Captain Grace was clinging to her husband for dear life, peering over his shoulder to combat their ludicrous height difference. Brax urged the horse up the embankment and disappeared over the other side.

"Thomas, why are you incapable of following my instructions, even just _once_?" She demanded of him, rolling over to dole him a withering look.

Despite the dire situation, the men of the _Arcadia_ chuckled to see their commanding officer chastised by his wife in such a way. He harrumphed, but didn't respond.

George quickly helped his wife down from her perch, fussing over her person until she was forced to repeat that she was _fine, everything was fine._ Almost immediately the two captains began to talk over one another, desperate to relay what they had seen.

"They are prepared to kill the natives to gain access to their land. It's Meyers' men, you can be sure of it. They left on horseback, but Chief Yahola's warriors are hot on their trail. He's seething with rage," Emily insisted, fidgeting with her belt. When she was anxious, she had a habit of cleaning her knives, and now was no exception. "They believe the men are on orders from Mrs. Meyers."

"That might not be the case," William muttered.

From the direction of town came the sound of hooves on the packed dirt. The sharpshooters were up on their haunches in a fraction of a second, their backs turned towards the horizon.

The silk dress and elaborate hairstyle were unmistakeable.

"Stand down!" This time it was Julia to call out the order. Through squinted eyes, Margaret studied the unfamiliar woman, and then turned back to the task at hand.

"Mrs. Meyers, whatever are you doing here? I'm afraid I must ask you to return to town," William said. He was already beginning to sweat.

With some difficulty, she managed to dismount. Ruby moved with the casual grace of someone who had grown up riding for recreation. While the last time they met her countenance had been calm, almost suspiciously so, her tone was sharp and higher pitched. "I heard there were sailors walking through town with weapons, as if they were preparing for battle. Oh, Sir Murdoch, what a _shock_! I never took you for a revolutionary."

"What shock?" George cut in before he could respond, gesturing to her side. "Then what's that knife with you?"

With a flick of the wrist, the dagger disappeared into the folds of her skirt. Her expression grew inexplicably cloudy, for she could no longer feign ignorance.

William was once again struggling to contain his anger, his voice trembling with vibrato. "You must answer truthfully now. Do you know the particulars of the contract you signed with Sir Jarvis?"

She opened her mouth as if to respond, then snapped it shut. Slowly, she shook her head. "He read it aloud to me, as I cannot do so myself. I am not ashamed to admit it."

Behind him, Brax had to swallow down the bile rising in his throat. Her unwavering trust of the lawman, and to some extent her naivety, was what had gotten them into this mess.

Julia, however, was done tiptoeing around the woman. "He's taken advantage of you, don't you understand? That contract authorized him to seize control of the natives' lands, and God knows what else. They're prepared to kill for it."

Now she was visibly upset, shrinking away from the other woman with her hand clasped to her gaping mouth. She looked between each of them, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Your silence may have caused a war," William added to the effort, making sure the weight of her actions were well known.

Carefully, she straightened herself up to full height. Tears were forming at the corners of her eyes, but she managed to grind out, "It was well worth it to meet _you_ , Sir."

Captain Grace's hand tightened around the hilt of her best knife, then loosened. "You disgust me," she murmured, barely in earshot.

"It's not my fault!" Mrs. Meyers insisted, hands outstretched. "It was Hachi that was always sneaking around with Roger James. I told her a thousand times to stop, that her brothers would be _furious_ , and soon she was found out like the damned fool she is!"

She went on to explain that Chief Chitto had come to their home in the middle of the night, enraged beyond words that his sister would consider forsaking her own people for the English. There had been a physical altercation, during which he attempted to choke the life out of her. Hachi had used the poker to defend herself, striking back with all her might. Terrence and Ruby had come downstairs in time to see the bust inadvertently shatter the Chief's skull. On the way out of their bedroom, Ruby had grabbed the shotgun, thinking there was an intruder in the sitting room, and was still toting it as Terrence made his way over to Hachi, yelling for her to _shoot the savage, just do it, shoot her now._ And looking between her husband, whom she had never truly loved, and her best friend, who she could and _did_ spend every waking moment with, she realized what she had to do.

Minutes later Mr. Meyers lay dead, and they quickly set to covering their tracks. Fortunately, the standing law enforcement agency, the offices of James, James, Jarvis and James, hadn't put too much thought into it. Henry had been an easy target, and collateral damage in the mess of their relationship, which was surely unsalvageable now that Hachi suspected her of betrayal.

And so it had been a grand cover up all along. William was plainly floored by her confession, as were his companions. In shock, the sharpshooters had allowed themselves to look up and away from the horizon, studying the movements of the people behind them.

"If you are looking for who is truly guilty of murder, it is I. Hachi was only trying to defend herself, and I killed my husband with malicious intent. Did you know he all but _bought_ me from my father? For a substantial investment in his firm, he would send his daughter overseas to wed a man she'd never met. But for these past two months I have lived as I always dreamed. I have my own business. There's no one to answer to. I now have my freedom, and if you want to know the truth, _I don't regret it!_ "

There was a long period of silence, then he asked the rhetorical: "Yes, madam, but at what cost?"

The distant sound of a gunshot shattered the moment. Instantly, the sharpshooters sprung to attention. The captains-including Julia, who had never truly given up on the habit-held up their spyglasses and peered towards the action.

Far in the distance, a large dirt cloud had been churned up by galloping hooves. The advance on Charles Town had all but stopped as the two parties engaged dead ahead. They had planned at length for this. _They had woefully miscalculated._

William soon realized that the two crews were looking to him for orders for the first time. In the reaches of his memory, he recalled being the odd man out, having been singled out by the privateers as the wealthy highbrow who barely found it worth his time to get involved in their business. How things had changed.

 _It had only taken several murders and more than a untimely deaths._

"Your main objective is to prevent further bloodshed! Separate the English and the natives using any means necessary, but do not fire unless directly challenged." This time the sharpshooters rose to their feet, assuming a ready stance. They were waiting, waiting for the words they so often heard in such dire circumstances.

"For the _Arcadia_ , and for the _Temperance_!"

There were echoes heard throughout the crowd, and then they charged up and over the embankment, thundering across the plains towards the escalating conflict. Brax didn't hesitate, brandishing his saber and joining the pursuit, though he hobbled with every step.

Those that remained watched in silence for a few beats, before Captain Grace reached for the reins in and made a mad grab for the saddle.

George was intervening immediately, wrapping his arms around her protruding belly from behind and tugging her backwards. "Let it go!"

She thought of Chief Yahola's wife, and the healer, and every other innocent person in the village who stood to be slaughtered if they didn't act. And then she struggled harder.

"Let them go, Emily!" Julia demanded, surrounding her from the opposite side. Eventually she ceased to thrash her arms and legs and settled into their embrace, trembling ever so slightly.

Over her shoulder, William watched as one rider broke free of the conflict and rode through the approaching ranks of privateers with breakneck speed. They let them pass, and as the animal drew closer, he recognized Hachi.

She didn't stop to speak to them, leaning forward to urge to horse to run faster. At once Mrs. Meyers remounted and dashed after her in the direction of town.

Now woefully lacking any sort of transportation and not wanting matters to escalate any further, William began to run as fast as his legs could carry him.

-0-

Rebecca awoke with a start to the sounds of frenzied shouting, which were growing ever closer by the second. She was laying in an odd position, and it took a bit for her to realize that she wasn't in her bunk and it hadn't been just an awful dream. She had fallen asleep next to Henry in the dirt of the shed, holding his hand through the bars.

 _She had abandoned her post._

With a kick, she startled him awake and they scrambled to their feet. Desperately, she wondered if the battle had already begun and if anyone had noticed her absence.

"You've got to believe me!" The impassioned cry came from the opposite side of the thin wooden walls, and she recognized the voice immediately.

"I most certainly do _not_. This ruins everything…" The second, less familiar voice faded out and was replaced by a jumble of angry shouting.

 _Sir Murdoch. Captain Grace. George. Then Sir Murdoch again._ And then the door was thrust open, temporarily blinding her to the daylight. Sir Jarvis stumbled into the room, followed shortly by Julia.

He was waving something in the air, something she soon discerned to be a pistol. Swinging it wildly, he finally set sights on his target, the glint in his eyes positively feral. "This ends here!"

She didn't wait to act, especially when the end of the barrel was mere inches from them. Rebecca leaned towards him, intended to knock the weapon from his hand, and found herself at the receiving end of the bullet.

In the seafaring business, she had seen plenty of people shot, and plenty of people shot dead for that matter. Oftentimes she ventured to imagine what it would feel like, especially in the dark days after her daughter's death. She thought she knew, but nothing could prepare her for the complete escape of air from her lungs, the stall in her heart beat, the loss of balance as she fell to the ground.

The last thing she could recall before losing consciousness was Henry's voice, pleading for mercy, begging her to stay with him.

Above her head, Julia was the first to spring into action. Before Jarvis could fire again, she incapacitated him, pinning his arms behind his back and wheeling him around to drag him away.

What she couldn't have predicted was George standing there with his broadsword held at waist level, having drawn it in the heat of the chase. It found the vulnerable flesh of the older man's abdomen, piercing hard and deep.

As he fell from Julia's grasp, Sir Jarvis could be heard to say to Ruby, "My dear, this is for you alone."

 _(to be continued, one last time)_


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: We have arrived at the end of this story! There were just so many loose ends to tie up, though I hope I have done each of them justice (and given Jilliam an appropriately satisfying ending).

Hachi's decision to go southward echoes the origins of the Seminole tribe, who often clashed with the Spanish at forts such as St. Augustine. In the early drafts of MOD, the action took place there.

I want to thank each and every one of you for supporting my seemingly endless foray into historical fiction, the reviewers, favoriters, and casual readers. Next for me would probably be some oneshots examining season nine. We'll see where the plot bunnies go. Until we meet again, Skye

 **Mistress of Discord**

 **Chapter Ten**

The first thing to register on George's face was utter shock. He let the broadsword be pulled from his grasp, still lodged in Sir Jarvis's chest, and watched as Julia laid him supine upon the ground. She made quick work of untucking his shirt to expose the wound, studying the slanted point of entry that stretched from his side to just above the heart. She attempted to staunch the bleeding with her hands, but the blood was coming too fast and too strong, leaving a spray of fluid across her bodice.

Just as her ears ceased to ring from the proximity of the gunshot, she became aware that Henry was near hysterics. The crumpled body of his lover lay at his feet, her eyes half closed and mouth open as she struggled for breath. She had two patients, and it was very likely she could only save one.

Julia didn't put more than a moment's thought into it as she crawled over the man to come to her friend's aid. Rebecca's wound did not seem to be terminal, but it was serious. As blood continued to seep through the navigator's dress around the navel, she made a silent prayer that her stomach hadn't been punctured. But she had done this before. Distantly, she remembered having operated on Captain Brackenreid on a dining room table with no more than a kitchen knife the last time he'd been shot.

She may or may not have given her companions instructions on how to tend to Jarvis before bending to her work. Later on, she could not remember. Rebecca's pulse was faint and fluttering, but was very much still _there_.

In the meantime, William knelt down to make sense of the words Sir Jarvis was whispering, his strength all but sapped away. Behind him, Hachi and Ruby were clinging to one another, their expressions a curious mixture of relief and horror.

"This is your last chance to confess," he said, watching as the man pawed desperately at the growing bloom of blood, his breathing becoming more ragged by the second.

He coughed roughly, spitting up a little blood as he did so. "Sir Murdoch, you should know that men like us never do."

George's sword was beginning to sag under its own weight, going from upright to almost a forty-five degree angle, widening the wound in the process. It was likely the only thing keeping him alive; the revered Irish weapon had surely punctured a major artery and was the only thing holding pressure to it. William seized the hilt and returned it to its original upright angle, then bore down ever so slightly. "With Meyers dead, you could easily lead his widow astray and secure the natives' lands for yourself. Once she realized she'd been had, she would have no choice but to marry you to maintain her lifestyle."

He cried out weakly, craning his neck to look at Ruby. "I could give her the life Meyers never could."

"You are more treacherous and deceitful than he ever was!" She exclaimed. "I would sooner take my own life than become your wife!"

Sir Jarvis smiled ruefully, lowering his head back onto the ground to peer up at William. "To think it nearly transpired as such."

A million memories danced before his eyes. _A young lecturer, the sound of leather shoes upon the floor, running, running. His father clinging to life as he slowly succumbed to alcoholism. A Spanish young man pressing a map into his hand, urging him to take it, take it and run._

"It was a brilliant strategy," he admitted. They had almost not uncovered it at all.

"So you _are_ impressed," Sir Jarvis mumbled, and then spoke no more.

All was silent for a moment, save for the sounds of Rebecca's labored breathing. William crossed himself, then leaned down to retrieve the key ring hidden in the deceased's pocket. Soon Henry was free from the cells. He looked desperately between his fallen love and his best friend, who was still shaken from having inadvertently killed a man. "Run and tell the others. It is over." Murdoch encouraged. The two stood stock still for a moment, then moved off together.

Captain Grace was beginning to think she might be sick. Ordinarily the sight of blood wouldn't have bothered her, but her unborn child was putting up quite the fight. So when Mrs. Meyers sought physical comfort in whatever form she could find and reached out to her, she let it happen, the much taller woman holding on to her for dear life.

-0-

George and Henry arrived on the battleground to an unexpected scene.

The natives were nowhere to be found. Not even a weapon had been left behind, as they had beat a hasty retreat into the plains as soon as they were engaged. If there had been any dead, they had taken them along, leaving a bewildered crew and Meyers' men quite satisfied with themselves.

Margaret sat amidst a pile of slain sailors, cradling one to her bosom like a child. The woman's bow was still slung over her shoulder; all George could make out was a shock of blonde curls that he soon identified as that of Annie Cranston, who had been Julia's medical assistant during her time aboard the _Temperance_. He recognized several other women and even some men from the _Arcadia_ , who had met their untimely end during the crossfire. His heart immediately sank.

The sharpshooter didn't acknowledge them as they drew closer, but Brax did. He looked between the young men and his wife, who was covered in her compatriots' blood from the neck down, and didn't have to explain.

Certainly the dead numbered fewer among Meyers' men, who had hung around long enough for them to deliver the news, whether out of guilty conscience or conceit. Indeed they believed they had been receiving orders from the widow the entire time through Sir Jarvis as a mouthpiece, and had been in the dark as much as everyone else had been on the situation. Their pride did not prevent them from offering an apology, though none would have sufficed.

Their bloody conflict had caused nary a stir in the town. After all, there was no enterprising businessman left to snoop in their business, and no acting constable to see to the crime.

When asked several hours later how she planned to manage now that both her oppressors were dead, Ruby replied that she ought to carry on just as she had before. The young woman was still in shock after all that had transpired. After taking her statement, William had offered to allow her to take up residence on the _Temperance_ for the time being, but she had refused. So Emily had walked her home along the main thoroughfare of town, and hadn't thought to say anything until they arrived at her front door.

"What are you and your people going to do now, Captain Grace?" She asked politely, arms crossed securely over her chest.

 _By heaven, she hadn't even begun to think about that._ "I suspect we will return to sea, looking for trouble again, no doubt."

"It seems to find you," Mrs. Meyers said, then realized the impropriety of that statement.

Several deckhands from the _Arcadia_ had been delegated to gather from the dead and take them back to the docks, where they would be prepared for a sea burial. It was the most tasteful, respectful barrier a man could ask for, Brax claimed, and Emily was inclined to agree.

"This is something I will have to carry on my conscience forever," she murmured, dodging eye contact.

Captain Grace studied the woman, who couldn't have been any older than she, and realized that she wasn't used to dealing with complex moral conundrums that her own hardscrabble lifestyle prescribed. Emily had known suffering, had known _tragedy_ , and yet it did not define her. But now it was beginning to catch up with her.

"I should imagine so."

Clearly this was not the emotional comfort Ruby was seeking, so she tried again. "Terrence's men aren't likely to heed my commands again. My business is going to take a hit. I would like to know I have friends all over."

She did not respond.

"I hope you do not mind me asking, but you are with child, are you not? If you plan on shipping out again, your child is going to need a governess. Someone to look after her, no doubt."

Her initial reaction was unbridled irritation. _How did this privileged, oblivious trollop manage to cause the deaths of a half dozen of their people and still had the utter gall to ask for favors from her?_ It would have behooved Ruby to beg for forgiveness at her feet, in hopes of gaining some sort of absolution.

In that moment the symbol of the Sun Mother felt immensely heavy in her pocket. Emily subconsciously reached for it, the otherwise flat stone with a fan pattern carved in deep grooves across one side. _So much the good luck it supposedly imparted._

But then she remembered the kind eyes of Chief Yahola's wife, her selfless ways and boundless joy. And they did not have to speak the same language for Emily to know that she valued forgiveness and tolerance above all else, an endless well of chance through which her life force flowed. She knew what she had to do.

Everyone deserved a second chance; heaven knew she herself had received more than a few.

-0-

"I suppose I will go south and join our ancestral brothers. They live very near a Spanish settlement, but their harvests are bountiful and their lives satisfying. They will surely welcome me, as I cannot return home now," Hachi explained as she sat in Sir Jarvis' former office giving her statement.

William was tremendously weary from the day's proceedings; once he paused to consider it, he realized he hadn't truly slept in four days. The other two members of the firm, the two eldest brothers James, had known even less about the plot than Roger and were quite eager to see him gone. He did not know how the case would proceed in his absence, but he was determined to clear the names of those involved.

"What about your brother? Does he share any of your guilt?"

She shook her head. "I told Yahola just enough to confuse him. When confronted with your people's questions, he said exactly what he thought you might want to hear and forgot the precedent. Chitto would have been too clever to allow himself to come into suspicion, but Yahola is not him. He is a peacemaker and only wants no harm to come to his people. This is most likely why he directed his warriors to flee."

Not for the first time in the day, William wondered if she truly _deserved_ his help. Hachi was not openly seeking forgiveness, but then again, it was not his to give out. Only God could judge the young woman for her actions, and he suspected he soon would.

"I hope you understand that this surely represents an end to the relations between the English and your tribe," he said.

Curiously, she smiled, leaning back in her chair. "Perhaps that might be for the best."

-0-

It was nearly midnight before William returned to the quay. Farther up the beach a fire pit had been constructed, and he followed the light far enough to see both crews gathered in a circle around it. Brax and Captain Grace stood and each made their way to the center of the circle, where they shook hands and turned to the assembled crowd.

"All those in favor of consolidation, say aye!"

The affirmation was swift and all-encompassing. He sought out George, who was sitting just outside the circle.

"You've just missed it," he whispered as the next round of voting began. Starting at the crest of the arc, they each declared their intent, strong calls of _sail_ with intermittent echoes of _remain_.

His gaze drifted between the weary faces of his friends. To think that only two years ago he would have considered them grimey, poorly bred, _untouchable_. Now he knew that each privateer lead an intensely fascinating life, their experiences and struggles all leading up to where they stood that day. Soon he too understood that the loss of personnel had taken a severe toll on their resources, and seeing as they already collaborated on many a mission, the crews of the _Temperance_ and the _Arcadia_ had decided to become one.

Captain Grace came to him requesting a sheet of parchment and he complied. She gave him a queer look, and then handed it to Julia, instructing her to write several tall letters across the top of the page.

To the crew, she explained that each letter represented a different candidate, indicating each as she went. Each sailor was to make a mark underneath his choice. As William watched, the paper made quick progress around the circle.

The two Captains could hardly read, and mathematics was surely difficult for them as well. They each took turns tallying up the votes, confirming their findings between them. When they were sure they had narrowed down the poll and no mistake had been made, Brax turned to address them.

"It is my pleasure to introduce the next commander of our joint venture, George Crabtree."

The young man was clearly stunned, for he didn't move to accept his appointment for some time. When William clapped a hand on his shoulder in acknowledgement, he flinched, suddenly coming to terms that all the applause was for him and him alone.

Slowly he rose to join them, only to be pulled into a rough embrace by Brax. Somewhat amused that he'd beaten her out to congratulate her own husband, Emily joined them, stretching her arms around their shoulders.

In the shadows on the far end of the fire, he could barely recognize the features of Ruby Meyers. She was considerably dressed down in one of the rough burlap dresses the lady sailors wore, her face scrubbed free of cosmetics and her hair tied back. William looked to Julia and then to Margaret for explanation; they glanced at him dolefully, but didn't offer any other information.

This was just as well. Their morale had taken a hit, and their numbers had been severely cut short, but for one brief moment the newly formed crew was happy. He joined the applause, and when the circle eventually broke, he rushed forward to congratulate George himself.

-0-

Rebecca awoke in an unfamiliar bed in the middle of the night and immediately tried to sit up. This was a mistake, as a shooting pain traveled across her abdomen and brought forth a cold sweat. Immediately she settled back into the pillow, far more luxurious than anything she'd experienced aboard the _Temperance_ , and tried to piece together the previous few hours.

For at least a few minutes, she was sure she had been dead. There was only blissful nothingness without stimulus, and then feeling and color had began to fill in the fringes. She was soon dreaming, more vividly than she ever had. Her entire life, from slavery to freedom to love to destitution, played over and over again in her mind. And then it was as if someone had seized her hand and pulled her back into the realm of the living.

 _What that what this was? Or was this the afterlife? Cold, alone, desperately, hopelessly alone…_

In the corner of the room, something shifted in the darkness. She stiffened up before realizing it was only Henry, sleeping fitfully in an armchair. He had bathed and had a shave since their last encounter in that grubby little cell, and had probably had a meal as well. Soon he joined her in bed, kneeling next to her over the covers.

"It's alright. Captain Og- _ugh, Julia_ -she's given you some medicine. You've been asleep only for a few hours. _Say_ , doesn't it feel strange to call the woman by her given name rather than her title, after all this time? I've got half the mind to keep calling her Captain. She's earned it, after all-"

"Henry," she whispered, fearing that any louder would rouse the pain in her belly, "What happened?"

Gently he pulled back the blanket and exposed her nightgown. Something seemed different; Henry guided her hands, and she felt the bandages wrapped across her middle. "She saved your life," he said, and then explained to her the depths of the information Sir Murdoch had provided them.

When this was done, Rebecca couldn't manage to hide her surprise. She had been so absorbed in her lover's impending death that she hadn't put much thought into who could have possibly done it, and why. But now that it was out in the open, everything made sense.

"Are they gone now?"

"They promised to come by in the morning before they ship out. George wouldn't dare sail off on a new adventure without telling me goodbye," he assured her.

She sighed contentedly, tracing his jawline with her fingers. "And where are we now?"

He stood suddenly, moving over to the window and pulling back the curtains. Through the pane glass, she could make out the faint rooftops of Charles Town. "They pooled their coins and bought us lodging for week at the inn. In a few days, I shall go out and purchase a land deed with my saved wages. There will be enough space for you and I and your mother. They were very generous, Rebecca. Did you know we're on the third story right now? I have never been so high off the ground in my _life_."

Both knew that was a falsehood, for he'd taken more than a few shifts in the crow's nest as a deckhand, but it still gave her cause to smile.

Before her lay her true love, her hope, _her future_. She could only pray they experienced many joyous moments like this to come.

-0-

Sailing out of Charles Town the following morning was exceedingly difficult for both complements. This had been their home for some time, and more than a few tears were shed during the departure of several treasured friends. It just so happened that some had decided to remain and make a life for themselves in the colonies. Due to their continued collaboration and long hours spent together, a handful of couples had paired off between the _Temperance_ and the _Arcadia_ , and even more singles had their sights on setting out alone. The deck did feel empty as the order was given to exit the channel; all hands on the women's ship had to come together in order to haul up the anchor. As they turned south onto the open sea, William caught a glimpse of Ruby Meyers straddling the bowsprit at the insistence of her newfound friends, holding on for dear life as her hair streamed behind her. As the hull caught an unexpected wave she was almost thrown from her perch, but she laughed it off, shouting back at the girls who had encouraged her to do it.

Their marching orders were to proceed back to Barbados, where William and Julia were to be dropped off along with some guests. Somewhere down the line of choosing another lifestyle now that he was no longer in command, Brax had set his eye _(the one not covered by the patch)_ on the island. As they stood on the quay observing both ships being prepared for voyage, he'd approached the lawman and gave his shoulder a companionable slug.

"I suppose I ought to try my hand at the shipping business, or law. Or perhaps fishing…" He mused, and the possibilities were truly endless. Margaret was in support of the idea, and Julia was overjoyed at the prospect of having one of her dearest friends from the _Temperance_ join them in Bridgetown.

Emily had graciously handed down her authority to her husband, and was presently sitting in the forecastle enjoying the sun. She seemed to have a new lease on life, though the fact that she was discouraged from physical labor due to her pregnancy would go on to frustrate her to no end.

It was unspoken among them, but _understood_ , that they would never again return to the Province of Carolina. One of their own was guilty of murdering a Crown esquire, no matter how accidentally. The people of Charles Town were not likely to forget this.

After much debate, the newly appointed Captain Crabtree had decided to sail south on to one of the many shipyards in the Caribbean and have both ships scuttled, then purchase the vessel of his dreams. It was to be named _Amicitia_ , for he had once heard that word and knew it meant _alliance_ or _grand friendship_. He pronounced it with a soft _c_ rather than a hard _k_ , and William, who had studied Latin at length, had to hold himself back from correcting him. It was a fine sentiment, and the name would represent them well.

He stayed topside for most of the morning. Eventually Julia joined him. She was barefoot in a loose white blouse tucked into trousers, much like she had been when they first met.

From some distance away, he could feel Emily's eyes on him. With Julia distracted, watching the horizon as they sped towards home with the _Arcadia_ on their trail, he made a cutting motion with his hand.

 _It was now or never._ Clearing his throat, William asked, "Julia, we have been through more together in these past two years than most do in their lifetimes."

"I do agree with that," she responded cautiously, not sure exactly where this was going.

He sighed, momentarily losing his ability to organize his thoughts. This was quite unlike him, and he quickly grew flustered. "We've been living together in the constabulary as companions, but I feel that there is something that had remained unspoken. I cannot help but feel that this is my doing. In my life, I have learned not to acknowledge a good thing for the fear it would be taken away."

Julia was starting to understand what he was getting at. She turned towards him and took his hands, silently urging him to continue.

"If this past month has taught us anything, it is not to wait until it is too late to enjoy what God has given you. And I know you are a gift that I dare not refuse, for I will never meet another woman like you. I never want it to be anyone else. I never want to be _without_ -"

"William-"

"Julia," he countered, unsure how to proceed. He had to make some grand gesture to show his respected her, treasured her, would always see her as his equal. So he knelt down to one knee much like one would do in church, looking up at her expectantly. "When we return to Barbados, if it pleases you, I would like to have you as my bride."

For one heart stopping moment when her expression was completely blank, he feared she might refuse. But then she stated simply: "I would like that very much."

They embraced, much to the amusement of everyone within ear shot. Once the moment had passed, he turned to the ladies of the _Temperance_ and exclaimed, "Is there not any work to do?"

Almost as if on cue, from the wheel George called back, "Prepare the deploy the foresail!"

William looked to the delighted woman on his arm, and knew in that instant he would never grow tired of making her smile. On a whim he took his leave of her and rushed forward, determined to do the honors.

The young man was pleasantly occupied by his enthusiasm, and pointed out the correct ropes to pull. They were now far enough out onto open sea where an extra boost in speed would be necessary.

Murdoch scarcely listened, as he'd seen it done a hundred times already. Climbing several feet up the foremast, he climbed atop the beam and pulled out the stays.

The beam bowed slightly as the sail unfurled, freeing him once and for all of inhibition as they caught the wind.

 **The End**


End file.
